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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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THE MASQUE 



OF THE 



MUSES. 



BY 



2 THOS. E. GARRETT. 



ST. LOUIS: 
THE ST. LOUIS NEWS COMPANY. 

1885. 



.Q17 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18S5, by 

THOMAS ELLWOOD GARRETT, 
In the Office of the Librarian cf Congress at Washington. 



Si. Louis, Mo.: St. Louis, Mo,: 

Press of Nixon-yoncs Printing Co. Becktold b' Co., Binders. 



CONTKNTS, 



PAGE 

Proem 3 

PROLOGUES — 

The Masque of the Muses 4 

Time and Tide 9 

Home Again ^ . 14 

MEMORIALS — 

Adelaide Neilson 18 

The Neilson Mulberry 32 

Matilda Heron 35 

Nathaniel Paschall 40 

George Knapp 42 

THREE STAGES — 

Pioneer 44 

Merchant 49 

Statesman 53 

LITTLE PEOPLE'S POEMS — 

Willie Clark 60 

Mary Who had the Little Lamb .... 69 

Blooming Christmas Tree 73 

Baby Brown-Eyes 75 

Cherry Cheeks 77 

Little Girl Lida 78 

Tiny Tina 79 

SONGS AND BALLADS — 

Belle Brandon 80 

Lady Beauty 82 

Thine and Mine 83 

Cithern Song . 85 

Among the Daisies 88 

Ballad 90 

Scotia 91 

Guard of Land and]_Sea . . . . . .94 

Bond and Shield . ...:... 96 



CONTENTS. 



SONGS AND '&M.LXV)S— Contimied. 

PAGE 

Arabel Knitting 97 

Susie in the Lane 99 

Tree and Vine 102 

Our Roof Tree . 104 

Muster Day 106 

MISCELLANEOUS — 

Our Mary 112 

The Old Post Road 114 

Dinner in the Street ,..,... 126 

Coronation — Yorktown Centennial Ode . . . 135 

Vagged 142 

Nero — From the German 147 

Disenthralled ........ 152 

Raking Hay 162 

The Old Clerk 167 

Shoshone 172 

Zelda 177 

Songs of the Dawn . 183 

Sallie Brown 189 

The Legend of a Leaf 194 

Endowment 199 

The Shoreless Sea 204 

Chimney Ghost — An Idyl 0/ the South . . . 207 

Our Best Room 221 

The Winding Road in the Wood .... 229 

Twice a Child 231 

OCCASIONAL — 

The Giants — Press Association Poem .... 238 

Field and Work — Press Association Address . . 252 

The Drama — A Response 269 

EDUCATIONAL — 

Normal School, Dedication 1 279 

Normal School, Dedication II 29-t 

SKETCHES FROM LIFE — 

Ukel-Zam 303 

Man and Monkey 314 

Half-Pasj Five in the Morning .... 325 

Poor Old Horse 341 




Lillian, whoe' er thou art. 
Of 7i2y life the dearest part. 
Ever sought, and never fotmd 
In my weary work-day round — 
Let me call thee Lillian. 

Dear one, dreamed of, never seen ; 
Something lost that might have been- 
Could the fleeting fond ideal 
Find fit lodgment in the real 
Blooming beauty Lillian. 



Lillian, where' er thou art, 
'Biding with thee is my heart. 
In thy day dream list to me 
Dedicate this verse to thee — 
"Airy, fairy Lillian.''^ 



PROLOGUES. 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



SPOKEN BY 



EMMA STOCKMAN NORTON. 




^HE world is topped with temples; 'neath 

fll w ^^^'' ^""^^^ 

'' JJLr Ideas build and fashion people's homes, 

Their social fabric, habits, customs, speech. 
And all that living learns and art may teach. 

A temple of the Muses here behold 
(The guardian vestals of the arts of old), 
Endowed with treasures costlier than the gems 
That blaze in crumbling, brow-worn diadems ; 
The stored rewards of thought, and toil, and strife 
To make the best and most of human life — 
The gold of genius and the pearls of worth. 
That sum the total riches of the earth. 



PROLOGUES. 



The muses' temple, and the hallowed shrine 
Of worship, when the Ideal was Divine; 
Sweet ministers of thought, its feehng, sight, 
Its inspiration and its wings of flight. 
Come, tuneful Nine — from old Olympus come 
Abide with us, and make our house your home. 

Hark! epic strains — heroic minstrelsy — 
A song of valor's deeds, and victory — 
All welcome, silver-toned Calliope. 

Terpsichore trips, smiling, graceful, fair. 
Bounding away from load of cast-off care, 
And flinging blooms of beauty in the air. 

Thalia laughs at follies she indites. 

And lengthens hfe, and heightens its delights, 

Bright'ning its days and sweetening its nights. 

In tragic passion rapt, Melpomene stands. 
With dewy eyes and nervous, wringing hands, 
And pleading voice that sympathy commands. 

Euterpe — Queen of Song — or grave or gay. 

As Music's spell inspires the lyric lay ; 

Where is the heart that yields not to thy sway? 

Laborious Clio lights the scenic stage 
With History's wide, illuminated page. 
And makes the world the heir of every age. 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



Erato sings her ditties soft and low 

In nooks where pairs of blushing lovers go 

To double joy, and share each other's w^oe. 

Polymnia, of meditative song, 

Cheering the weak, and strengthening the strong ; 

The hymn sublime still helps the world along. 

Urania — goddess of the star-bright train ! 
Shower heaven's light down on this earthy fane, 
Where "stars" are symbols of thy lustrous reign. 

The Nine are come — harmonious aid to lend, 
The Arts to honor, and our rites commend ; 
Each with her precious gift, and all combined — 
They bear the harvest yield of human kind. 

'Tis garnered here — the wealth of every clime ; 
'Ti^ here dispensed — the heritage of Time, 
Dispensed to all, in wholesome mental food 
For hungry souls who crave a sovereign good. 

Grandly beneath the Drama's liberal reign 
The people meet on Common Nature's plane. 
The rich, the poor, in one commingled throng 
Where all by right of kindred tastes belong. 

The most that learning, all that wealth can give 

Is, Life's best uses, and the Art to live. 

The Art Dramatic is the living Art 

To sound the depths and motives of the heart, 



PROLOGUES. 



And lengthen for its vot'ries life's short span 
By teaching man to know his fellow-man ; 
To live himself — obeying duty's call, 
And through his own true life to live in all. 

Who enters here lives in two worlds — the Real 

We leave without ; within we find th' Ideal. 

In this safe refuge of the tempest-riven 

We stand with feet on Earth, and head in Heaven, 

The magic of the Mimic Scene transforms 

To summer sunshine sorrows' clouds and storms. 

Escaped from turmoil, and unchained from care, 
Free fancy soars in intellect's upper air 
Among the masters — wise in every tongue 
That e'er was lisped in since the world was young, 
Or thundered from high places to resound 
Forever clear in time's eternal round. 

Such are the blessings that the muses bring 
Treasured in golden words the poets sing. 
The heritage is ours, we prize its worth 
Above the dust and grosser ores of earth ; 
We hoard it not as misers clutch their gold, 
Which drags them groaning to their mother mould ; 
But would therewith transmute the world's increase 
Into sweet concord and a golden peace. 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



When every man shall serve the general good, 
And love enfold the human brotherhood ; 
When all earth's nations harmonize as one, 
Then, not till then, the drama's work is done. 




TIME AND TIDE. 



SPOKEN BY 

ANNIE MOORE SCOTT. 



f/^f^f/HE time is the theme — and the taste of our 



JL P 



day 



As it tends to amusement and flows into 
play. 
Let's lay by our work ; we're too busy by half — 
Forget our vexations and honestly laugh ! 
The world that we live in is gloomy or bright, 
As the lens of the mind is that colors the light 
By which it is seen ; rub your glasses, and look 
At the pages and pictures -of life's open book. 

Day and night — light and shade — joy, grief, peace 

and strife, 
And the blending of tints is the science of life. 
There are manifold views and effects of the scene, 
As the colors of culture are — yellow or green. 
The white ray of intellect's crystalline light 
Is sunshine, and can not bewilder the sight. 



10 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Good and evil are rivals, as at the beginning, 
When knowledge was culprit, and set the world sin- 
ning. 

How to choose? That's a point on which tastes 

disagree ; 
What is wholesome for you may be poison to me. 
But common sense humanly pleads for our good, 
As appetite does in the matter of food, 
If the bill of fare's not to our liking, at least 
We can't be compelled to sit down to the feast. 
Empty benches will soon bring a change of the bills. 
As dieting doctors some bodily ills. 
The play's in your hands — or to make or to mar 
As you sit here in judgment on author and star. 

Now, what do you want? Will you laugh? Will 

you weep ? 
Are you ranged there in rows to go sweetly to sleep? 
Or would you have passion to harrow your hearts ? 
Or pretty spectacular nudity arts ? 
Is it dresses from Paris, or talents inbred ? 
Is it rags on the back, or brains in the head ? 

We've heard it asserted and claimed as a fact 
That Beauty's not genius, and clothes can not act. 
Dress never so fine, the attractions of face 
Are stronger than satin, and velvet, and lace ; 



PROLOGUES. I I 

How much more mentality's jewels outshine 
All gold-measured millions, and gems of the mine ! 
There's something to live for beside the mere soil, 
The dust, and the dirt, and the pain, and the toil. 
And life ought to furnish its own compensations 
After climbing so many improved generations ; 
And it does, if we use our five senses aright. 
And steadily keep our eyes turned to the light. 
There's nature, and art-works, and multiform beauty, 
And all to enjoy in the straight line of duty; 
They've kept the world moving from age unto age. 
And where do we love them best ? Here, on the 
stage. 

The time is the theme, and the tide, running high, 
Leaves hollow pretensions and other drift dry. 
Froth and foam — phosphorescent — when cast on 

the shore. 
Fall darkling, and make the beach barren the 

more. 
A sign of the times is a juvenile rage 
To make up as players, and act on the stage — 
As, who pounds piano, or scrapes violin, 
Unknowing a note, but producing a din. 
O ! the racket and jargon of drumming and voice ; 
Nor music, nor acting — just nothing but noise. 
Like the night-winds and waves in tumultuous roar, 
And daylight discloses the trash on the shore. 



12 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Skipping over the time when the Drama was young, 

We come to the age of our own Enghsh tongue. 

Good, merry old England, we reverence thee 

As the mother of freedom and mould of the free. 

We love the good matron who gave us a start 

In life and in morals, in speech and in art ; 

And — flesh of her flesh, and bone of her bone — 

She taught us to build up a home of our own. 

But chiefly the old country's dear to the young 

Because Shakespeare's language is ourmother tongue. 

The bard for all time, of no country or age. 

Is the growth, the flower, and the fruit of the stage, 

The figure ideal, passed reverently down. 

Combines in its presence both brow and the crown. 

Who cries down the theater, strikes at the heart 
Of popular consciousness, culture and art ; 
Who scoffs at the stage's imperial throne 
Had best let the world-seated sovereign alone. 
Nor quote him, nor know him, nor mention his name, 
And see to whose lot falls the folly and shame ; 
They've no right to steal from him even a line, 
Since his theme is human and theirs is divine. 
The world builds him temples, which have their high 

priests 
And service of homage, and incense, and feasts ; 
All we ask is charity, peace and good will — 
Long taught, but whose mission remains to fulfill. 



PROLOGUES. 13 



As time gallops onward, the world goes ahead — 

No retrograde movement can ever be led. 

What grand scenes were played on the stage of the 

West 
By manager actors — now gone to their rest ! 
Sol Smith, Bateman, Field and DeBar in the cast, 
And Ludlow still linking the present and past. 
The record of changes that every year brings 
Makes plain that improvement's the order of things. 
This house, that is built in the room of the last. 
Is proof of the present o'ertopping the past ; 
A conquest of Time ; and the height of the tide 
The floodgates of enterprise ever decide. 
With brain-power and culture, and muscle and bone, 
The world moves along with a force of its own. 




HOME AGAIN. 



OPERA HOUSE OPENING ADDRESS. 



^^c^^^EE'RE here again, happy, and hopeful and 

V j) Ip i A lU And favored by Fortune we've come back 

to stay. 
'Tis almost a year since ! Friends how do you do ? 
You're glad to see us ? Shake ! We're glad to see 

you ! 
Let's have a good time, and forget the dark days 
Of clouds in the skies, and gloom in our ways; — 
Remembering only the joyous, and bright. 
While living as much as we may in the light. 

This house that is builded where other ones stood 
We dedicate now to the service of Good : 
And here, to the shrine of the Muses we come 
To welcome Will Shakespeare's return to his home. 
A royal reception and greeting we give him. 
Assured that no monarch or man will outlive him — 
The soul of his age, and the beacon of ages, 
The greatest of poets, the wisest of sages. 



PROLOGUES. 



And this is his dwelhng place — right here among 
A people whose language is his mother-tongue. 
And we are his household — the actors, and you, 
Who give us your smiles, and kind friendliness, too. 
Exalt him as master, and love him as friend 
And worship his genius — world without end — 
Amen ! By the way, — this has no church relation. 
Though no church could have a more fit congregation. 

O ! magical Memory, turn the lorgnette 
On some scenes, and figures that linger here yet. 
There's Field, who first broke village barriers down. 
And built a grand play-house — away out of town. 
The place that was called the " Varieties " then 
Was fenced in and white washed for our " Upper 
Ten." 

Where boys were not wanted, the boys didn't go, 
And soon came disaster to " Gentleman Joe." 

Then " Crooks " and " Mazeppas " like Goths and 

the Vandals 
Rushed into the Drama's socks, buskins and sandals ; 
And shapely spectacular went it full tilt, 
And revelled in nudity, tinsel and gilt : 
But these orgies ended in surfeit, and then 

With face like the full moon rose merry old Ben 

The genial, and jolly, and jocund DeBar — 
A round lump of earth, yet he shone as a star. 



l6 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Here halt we a moment in Memory's glow, 

And dream back " De Bar's " but a short while ago ; 

With old things around and the old rafters o'er us, 

And Toodles, the Mock Duke, and Falstaff before us ; 

The royal old times, when the actors were on — 

A few are still left, but a many are gone ; — 

He whom we most miss in this retrospect scene 

Is honored with Shakespeare in Tower Grove green. 

New people have come ; — here are only a few 
Who thronged the new house in Eighteen Fifty-two ; 
But 'tween you and me — (only four years have 

flown) 
All warmed the new house of Eighteen Eighty- 
one — 
You — friends who stood by us, by night, and by day, 
In storm, and in sunshine, and made our work play ; 
Now, are you not — every one — glad you're alive 
To see the new house of Eighteen Eighty-five ? 

Ups and downs are events in all human careers, 
And change after change is the outcome of years. 
While new things supply the demand of the stage. 
Our friends, like good wine, are the better for age. 
Amid new surroundings you give us good cheer ; — 
As old friends we welcome you heartily here ; 
And, all in a bunch, we take you by the hand, — 
And say: — we do business still at the old stand. 



PROLOGUES. 17 

Our aim is to please, and amuse you when toil 
Might even the sweetest of sweet tempers spoil, 
To lift off of Life the dull load that it bears. 
And light up your pathways, and drive away cares — 
But just for a night of Elysian dreams 
That bring to the coming day unclouded beams; 
The bent of our efforts is true pleasure-giving 
To add to life's relish, and make it worth living. 

What more can we do, in the nature of things 
Than that, which in doing, most happiness brings 
To you, and to us, — and in far largest measure 
To those whose condition gives small means of 

pleasure ? 
On our part, we promise to give you the best 
That the market affords — North, South, East and 

West ; 
The bill of fare's tempting for good appetite ; 
Good cheer, good digestion, and happy good-night ! 
September, 1885. 





MEMORIALS. 



ADELAIDE NEILSON. 



\l!5lfirf/HE actress is dead ! The obituaries have all 
been written, and, regardless of their varied 
color and tone, readers have formed their 
'W own estimate of the life and work and worth 
of Adelaide Neilson. It is safe to say that the ver- 
dict is one of universal admiration. The sentiment 
is respect, and the feeling sincere grief. A life of 
honest, earnest, conscientious endeavor can safely- 
trust to post-mortem criticism. The truth has already 
been recorded in the work done, and falsehood, when 
the subject is forever beyond its reach and can not 
reply, is its own sufficient commentary upon the 
author or disseminator. 

For many years no death in the dramatic profes- 
sion has awakened so deep and general a feeling of 
regret and sadness as the final exit of Lilian Ade- 
laide Neilson. It was unexpected and strange as 
the sudden blotting from the sky of a bright star 
upon which all eyes were at that moment turned. 
She had just bade us a professional farewell, in 
view of her return to England and early and perma- 
nent retirement from public life, but all who listened 



MEMORIALS. 1 9 



to her last words still cherished the hope of seeing 
her again. The death of this rare and radiant 
woman in the very noonday of her power and the 
harvest time of her fame is one of those events which 
people can not realize until they feel the cold blank 
for years, and strain their eyes to recover a vision 
which comes no more before them. But a few 
days after she left our shores the peerless Neilson 
was dead in Paris. She had scarcely time to recover 
her breath after a long season's hard work before she 
was snatched away to rest, and nothing remains of 
her brilliancy but the memory of her fair outlines 
and those magnetic tones in which the souls of the 
greatest creations of the human intellect lived and 
breathed. The actor's art-work has no niche but 
actual presence on the scene ; no frame but the 
proscenium, and no page but memory. In a moment 
the voice and figure are gone, and leave neither echo 
nor shadow. The painter transmits his pictures, the 
sculptor his figures, the architect his monumental 
columns and domes, the poet his living, breathing 
words, and the musician his scores, which ring on 
forever, but the actor leaves nothing with the stamp 
of his genius upon it to exemplify and perpetuate 
the character of his methods or the masterpieces of 
his art. The annals of the stage are but skeleton 
etchings to those who never heard or saw the van- 
ished artist in whom the most beautiful dreams of 
poetry and forms of thought lived and charmed ; 
kindly memories transferred to the printed page 
are the only enduring recompense. Such feelings 
of friendliness and a desire to render justice prompt 



20 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



the writer to pen his impressions of Adelaide Neil- 
son. 

It is a matter of no moment whence she sprung, 
who were her ancestors, or what was her early train- 
ing and condition. She came from obscurity and 
rose to power, and this record is an honor. It mat- 
ters not whether the mingled blood of Spain and 
England coursed in her veins and developed a per- 
son of singular and original beauty ; she entranced 
all eyes and ears that came within her influence, and 
became the world's citizen. She got a great public 
hearing, spoke, convinced and triumphed. For many 
thousands she made the world more beautiful and 
happy than it would have been if she had not lived 
in it, and her lips added a sweeter tone to the Eng- 
lish tongue. This audience naturally feels that a part 
of earth's beauty has passed away and that there is 
less to live for since she is gone. Thus she attained 
a position in which she contributed largely to the 
world of beauty and the store of human happiness. 
She was one of Art's cosmopolitans. 

It would be interesting to trace step by step her 
way to the height and breadth of public presence 
and power, but her beginnings, like most of the first- 
lings of genius, are obscure. The way up into the 
light was doubtless thorny and rugged and steep, for 
her countenance bore the lines and shadows of suf- 
ferinsf, which the sunshine and warmth of her nature 
had moulded into features of sparkling expressive- 
ness and facial eloquence. Her whole history of toil 
and pain was written on the many pages of her face, 
which she turned over and over in every hour of 



MEMORIALS. 21 



mental activity during professional work, or in social 
intercourse with friends. It was a story of ever- 
changing color and interest in which glimpses of the 
unprinted page of girlhood could occasionally be 
caught. 

Whatever Neilson's early surroundings and oppor- 
tunities may have been, there was evidently a time in 
her young life when she seized upon the gifts with 
which nature had lavishly endowed her, turned them 
to the best account, and developed herself into a 
woman of rare culture. She was conversant with 
French, as most educated English people are, a good 
Latin scholar, and a writer of elegant English, as her 
friendly correspondence abundantly testifies. She 
was also well versed in polite and general literature, 
kept the run of politics and the sciences and con- 
versed critically and entertainingly of both ancient 
and modern authors, among whom Shakespeare was 
the idol at whose shrine she worshiped. 

She was poor and felt the need of a career aside 
from the possible promptings of ambition. In cast- 
ing about for means of honorable livelihood she 
seems to have drifted upon the stage, and her first 
work there was doubtless the beginning of that cul- 
ture by which she subsequently achieved distinction 
and renown. Her predominant qualities and natural 
tastes may have led her into the drama ; or her ap- 
pearance on the stage may have been a fortuitous 
accident; but she found the right place, as events 
proved. Such a strong and happy union of both 
mental and physical qualities as she possessed for 
her adopted profession occurs certainly not more 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



than once in an age, and this combination of fitnesses 
is the key which unlocks the secret of her power and 
phenomenal success. 

Her self-culture gave her an intimate and thorough 
knowledge of herself, the materials she had at com- 
mand and her capacity to use them. She knew what 
she had and its value so well that she never wasted 
time or strength in attempts to do anything which 
she could not master. By this common-sense econ- 
omy her efforts were always well directed and 
crowned with the logical compensation. She put 
her faculties to work by rule, and instinctively fol- 
lowed art principles, yet in the whirlwind of action 
she was often caught up, lifted to a region above law 
and reached results by inspiration. She did every- 
thing she set out to do, and in her own way, which 
could not have been taught her and which she could 
not have taught another. She absorbed a character 
until it became built up and compact in her being, 
and she breathed into it a living soul. Often her 
readings would not bear the criticism of elocution, 
but they nevertheless produced the true artistic ef- 
fects ; and she had tricks of voice and intonation 
which flashed the sentiment and struck the key of 
awakened sympathy with harmonious touch. Thus 
her accompaniments to the lines, in tone, movement, 
business and general expression, were never out of 
tune. Her volume of voice was limited; she never 
committed the offense of overstraining it, but adopted 
the intense expression of suppression, which was her 
method of producing effects she could not reach by 
declamation. Her treatment grew naturally out of 



MEMORIALS. 23 



her own physical and mental materials, and so devel- 
oping she could never have become the slave of an- 
other's method, or an imitator of mere personality or 
mannerism. Her mannerisms — neither emphasized 
nor obstrusive — were her own, and tinted her work 
with a mellow individual coloring. She was a great 
artist — first, because she knew Neilson, and re- 
spected the acquaintance enough to be true to her- 
self; and again because, led by true dramatic instinct 
and feeling, she never swerved from the path and 
purpose of art. With instinctive certitude she seized 
upon a line of characters for which, in person, she 
seemed to have been specially created, and held 
them with such a grasp that none of her competitors 
could wrest them from her. She appropriated them 
by the right of conquest, and held them by the 
might of both body and mind. They were Shake- 
speare's women — the noblest ideal types of woman- 
hood — Juliet, Rosalind, Viola, Imogen and Isabella. 
She looked into Shakespeare's page as into a mirror 
wherein she viewed in reflected transfiguration the 
characters as they would appear in her embodiment. 
She became incandescent of the character and arose 
from her studies — not a superficial reflection of Juliet 
and the others, but the living ideal, glowing with the 
bard's poetic fire in a figure fitly framed to embody 
his dreams of beauty. She filled the eye first as the 
ideal form ; she moved and spoke and the illusion 
was perfect. She felt, rejoiced and suffered with 
the character, and actually passed through every pas- 
sion and emotion implied by the dramatic situation. 
She did not simulate either smiles or tears — they 



24 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

came unbidden and were beyond her control when 
she and the character were moulded into one under 
the poetic spell. The woman was oblivious of the 
world around her while she ministered as high priest- 
ess in the consecrated temple of art. 

Neilson's first love and most renowned character 
was Juliet, though it is doubtful if Juliet were her 
most excellent work. Still, it is beyond question 
she was the great Juliet of her time, if not the great- 
est of all time. The annals and traditions of the 
English stage have no previous records of a mind 
and physique combining such poetic and personal 
fitness for that opening bud of maiden's love, as they 
harmoniously blended and bloomed in the Juliet of 
Adelaide Neilson. Could he have seen her, the great 
bard himself would have been cheated into believing 
the reality of his own beauty dream. But it was in 
comedy that Neilson felt especially at home and was 
essentially great. Among the heroines of Shake- 
spearian comedy she reigned supreme, rose to heights 
of excellence never before attained and left no one 
in sight worthy to take up and wear her toppled 
crown. Suddenly dashed from her brow, it lies as 
it fell — its gems enshrouded in mourning wreaths, 
sacred to the memory of Rosalind, Viola and Imogen, 
and Juliet from the balcony can not say as once she 
did: — 

"Stay but a little, I will come again." 

Juliet will be long coming. 

Neilson's industry was untiring, her energy in- 
domitable and her study severe and perpetual. When 



MEMORIALS. - :> 



speaking of her characters she dropped into them 
trance-Hke and seemed to think their thoughts and 
utter their souls. Juhet was her training companion 
until the fierce heat of young and disastrous love 
melted actress and character into one. From this 
plastic congeniality, heated by the fire of genius and 
ever in action, other characters were rounded and 
forms moulded as life dashed on. There was no 
stopping place, no rest. After years of toil devoted 
to each, Rosalind and Viola and Imogen successively 
came in her person and were indissolubly mingled in 
her being. In these noble female characters who 
don the masculine garb, the actress was singularly 
graceful under the disguise and conscientiously true 
to the dramatic purpose. The dramatist's delicate 
poetic tracery of feminine purity and modesty in the 
masculine mask never received finer touch and color- 
ing than at the hands of this greatest Shakespearian 
comedienne. She especially loved Imogen as Shake- 
speare's paragon woman — combining in her charac- 
ter the true love and young passion of Juliet, the 
romantic devotion of Rosalind, and the pathetic 
constancy and fidelity of Viola. And with Imogen 
Neilson's work was crowned. 

Adelaide Neilson was one of the few dramatic 
artists who stood faithfully and lovingly by the legiti- 
m.ate English drama during its years of peril from 
the vicious French invasion and the pernicious un- 
dressed and unwashed camp followers ; and be it said 
to her lasting honor that she earned her triumphs in 
making lovable models of virtue presented in the 
highest types of her sex. This was the aim and 



26 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

the grand result of her life-work in the field of 
dramatic art, and no actress, living or dead, has per- 
formed her mission more thoroughly or deserves a 
dearer place in English memory. 

Her public career stamped her as a woman of the 
world by the same law that would in private sur- 
roundings have made her a darling of society. Her 
lot was cast in the light of public gaze constantly 
beating upon her, and this pervading publicity always 
throws personal character upon the defensive. She 
had but few intimate friends, and even among the 
few, some crawled into her confidence who proved 
unworthy of trust. Those whose friendship she re- 
jected confirmed her judgment by the character of 
their retaliation. She was grossly abused ; she suf- 
fered intensely, and she was capable of supreme 
happiness. She had corresponding depressions — 
dark moments — but her spirit was elastic and soon 
rebounded into the light. The soul of summer sun- 
shine streamed gleeful and golden around her little 
social circle, when worldly reserve gave place to 
natural impulse. She forgot herself in her friends, 
and lived every one's enjoyment, which so much mag- 
nified her own. She was a fluent conversationalist, 
natural in manner, spontaneous in matter, overflowing 
with good humor and quick at repartee. Her humor 
was kindly and her topics were all womanly. She 
had no heartless jests or hard words for her friends or 
foes, and no harsh criticisms for her professional sis- 
ters and brothers. If she had nothing good to say, 
she said nothing. As a member she honored her 
profession. Her manners and speech were singularly 



MEMORIALS. 27 



refined, her impulses were all generous and noble, 
and her friendships sincere. Her heart sprang to the 
surface at a tale of distress, and her hand obeyed the 
finest instincts of human nature in the practice of 
charity, her many acts of which were strictly private 
and never paraded in print. She had a just estimate 
of the commercial value of her work and was a strict 
woman of business. Her rigid principles and habits 
of business sometimes subjected her to the charge 
of grasping parsimony, which did her heart wrong 
and misprized her generous nature. If those with 
whom she had business transactions would consult 
their books and compare her figures with other sim- 
ilar profits, they will write down "justice" to her 
credit at the close of their last accounts. 

No one could have been in the company of Ade- 
laide Neilson five minutes without receiving the im- 
pression that she was a woman of rich mental 
resources, wide cultivation, great experience of the 
world and extraordinary force of character. Her 
presence was magnetic and filled the room with its 
quiet luminousness. There was nothing exaggerated 
or emphasized or loud or stagy in her demeanor — 
quite the reverse. While an entertaining talker, she 
was an attentive listener. She never spoke of her 
profession or her own work unless the subject was 
introduced by another, and then she was charmingly 
communicative on matters pertaining to the stage. 
But she talked more of the general principles of art 
and the development of dramatic characters than of 
what she herself did or aimed to do. She had strong 
opinions upon these subjects, which showed the 



28 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

character of her studies, the thoroughness of her art- 
culture, and that she knew every step of the way to 
her results and position. 

There was also in the Neilson presence a strange, 
indescribable something, which, notwithstanding her 
artless openness, hinted of untold trials and unwrit- 
ten history. To those who made her a study she 
was an enigma constantly giving her own solution — 
yet still an enigma. She apparently laid herself de- 
fenseless, yet she was still armed. The luminous 
impression she photographed of herself yesterday 
was not exactly her picture of to-day. She was al- 
ways the same, yet ever new, and she seemed to have 
a reserved mentality like a shield, always at com- 
mand. This attitude of intellectual defense may 
have been taken and maintained in consequence of 
domestic troubles, which were supposed to be known 
to all, but which could not be openly discussed. She 
was married young and unhappily; there was no 
congeniality of temperament or tastes in the life 
partnership, and there were other causes which im- 
pelled her to seek divorce, and enabled her to obtain 
it. The decree was granted in New York, after she 
had been legally enrolled in the court records as a 
citizen of the United States. These proceedings 
made rumor busy with her name, but she continued 
her work with ever culminating success. 

Before her last visit to this country, in performance 
of that series of engagements which was her last, she 
had engaged herself to marry an English gentleman 
of rank and high social position, which contract in- 
cluded her final retirement from public life. This 



MEMORIALS. 



matrimonial engagement has been the theme of much 
discussion by correspondents and comment by edi- 
tors, altogether placing her in a false light. When 
she was last in St. Louis she distinctly stated to the 
writer that she was compelled to leave the stage to 
save her life, and that she was to marry a gentleman — 
twenty years her senior — connected with the 
British Court, who had been long a suitor for her 
hand. She did not mention the name, but certain 
references and statements since her death leave little 
doubt that her betrothed was Rear Admiral Hon. 
Henry Carr Glyn, C. B., C. S. I., whose name has 
been mentioned in connection with her death and 
funeral. Physicians had already admonished her 
that her work was killing her, and she often had 
warnings that this was true. She worked with every 
faculty of her mind and every nerve and fiber of her 
body, and from such severe tension, after her acts 
she often fell, fainting. She used to say that after 
the potion scene of JuHet her heart seemed to "shut 
up " suddenly and cease its functions. During her 
seasons of work many of her day-times were racks 
of pain, in the tortures of which she would have given 
the whole profits of her engagement for "just one 
day off, " as she quaintly expressed it. Thus she 
became a martyr to her art, and too early died the 
martyr's death. 

In person Adelaide Neilson was a woman of won- 
derful fascination and charm. Her figure was slender 
and lithe; her complexion brunette, and her hair 
golden brown. Separately her features were not 
regularly handsome, excepting the great lustrous 



30 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

eyes, of wondrous depth, yet in action her face 
was music, and poetry, and painting incarnate — a 
beauty-trinity. The make-up for character, of 
stage usage, and necessity, did not heighten her 
personal charm, for she was even more dazzHng off 
the stage than on. Her social friends were favored 
with the best of her, and saw her in her richest 
beauty's light and life. Her popularity and profes- 
sional success were by some placed to the credit of 
her personal attractions, but she grandly triumphed 
over this slighting imputation. The best proof of the 
victory of the intellectual over the merely factitious 
in her composition is the fact that the large majority 
of her audiences and admirers were of her own sex. 
The ladies everywhere outbid and outdid the gen- 
tlemen in yielding her their incense of admiration. 
The source of this attraction was Neilson's own large 
humanity and broad womanhood, which compelled 
responsive homage. The diamond is never eclipsed 
by its setting, and Neilson's chiefest jewel was her 
true feminine mentality. 

During her last visit to St. Louis some friends took 
her to see the bronze Shakespeare in Tower Grove 
Park, with which she was greatly pleased, and which 
she regarded as more eloquent of power than any 
Shakespeare she had ever seen. She looked at the 
statue and the embellishments of its pedestal from 
all points of view, and became desirous of contribut- 
ing something to the Shakespeare surroundings. She 
promised to visit Stratford at her earliest conven- 
ience, obtain a slip of the Shakespeare mulberry and 
send it over to be planted in her name. She stepped 



MEMORIALS. 



off the ground at the back of the statue and marked 
the spot where she would Hke the tree to grow. She 
was not permitted to fulfill her promise. 

In the death of Adelaide Neilson the English 
stage was robbed of one of its chiefest adornments, 
and the drama of one of its potent exponents. 
Each individual of her great audience feels her 
"taking off" as a personal loss, a sad bereavement 
of the eye and heart, and many Americans who may 
hereafter visit England will make pilgrimages of love 
and memory to a grave at Brompton. 




THE NEILSON MULBERRY. 




|NE windy afternoon in March, 1880, Adelaide 

Neilson went with friends to Tower Grove 

fii Park, St. Louis, to see the Shakespeare bronze, 

^'^ descriptions of which had awakened her in- 
terest. To one of the friends she had written from 
a distant city : — 

"A little strolling player will soon visit dear St. 
Louis, alas ! for the last time ! Thinking of it I 
weep tears of sorrow ! " 

As she had resolved to retire from her profession 
and live at home, in England, she felt it her duty to 
see the Tower Grove statues. Neilson was in her 
happiest mood, and yet she seemed to chat and 
laugh under a shadow. She had frequent warnings. 
The doctors had told her to quit work, she said, but 
the sudden summons would come. She was sure 
of that, and the certainty gave her life a new zest. 

The drive in the park was exhilarating, and she was 
briUiant as nature's budding green. The " Hum- 
boldt" was soon passed, for " Shakespeare," in sight, 
attracted her with a magnet's charm. She stood 
before the figure for a time in reverence. She 
viewed it from all sides, in the changing lights and 
shadows of a mottled sky, and talked while she 
ivalked. The " Shakespeare " lived to her, and she 
was familiar yet solemn in the presence. 



MEMORIALS. 33 



" Old fellow, you have done a great deal for me, 
a great deal for me," she repeated, slowly weighing 
her words and nodding her head. She finally came 
to a stand and said : " Here it has the greatest 
power of expression and pose." 

The point of view was quartering to the north, 
about forty feet from the base. The inspection over, 
she was asked what she thought of it, and she replied : 

" I think that among all the Shakespeare memo- 
rials, public and private, this is the best I have seen." 

One of the friends suggested that she might furnish 
a memento of her visit to the statue by sending a 
Shakespeare mulberry to be planted near. Her face 
lighted up as she replied : — 

" I shall be too happy ! It will be a pleasure, and 
I feel honored in the privilege." 

She then stepped off several paces from the base 
at the back of the statue, until the distance seemed 
right, and turning her dainty boot-heel in the sod, 
she said : — 

" Soon as I return to England, I shall go to Strat- 
ford first, before London, and I promise to send a 
Shakespeare mulberry slip to be planted here." 

And when the carriage moved away her face was 
turned to the " Shakespeare " as long as it was in sight. 

She never saw Stratford again, and only her dust 
ever reached England, 

The promised mulberry " shp " never came, but 
Mr. Henry Shaw furnished a mulberry tree from his 
gardens, and he and Mr. N. M. Ludlow, the oldest 
actor and dramatic manager living, Mr. Thomas 
Dimmock, one of the " friends," and Thomas E. 



34 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Garrett, planted the tree at the spot designated, in 
memory of the great JuHet, Rosalind, Viola, and 
Imogene, — Adelaide Neilson, whose art and person 
created and embodied the most perfect verisimili- 
tudes of these lovely women of Shakespeare prob- 
ably that the world ever saw. 

Mr. Shaw supplemented this act with a marble 
tablet bearing the inscription : " Mulberry tree, 
planted on the spot marked by Adelaide Neilson 
March 25, 1880." 

And the " Neilson mulberry," in the place of the 
" Shakespeare slip," buds, blossoms and bears, and 
will keep the " little strolling player's " memory 
green in the years to come. 

IN MEMORIAM. 
The spirit of Nature, robed in leafy green, 

Finds here her favorite pleasure-ground retreat ; 
Where toilsome Art has set the sylvan scene. 

And strewn rich tributes at her mistress' feet. 

Humboldt and Shakespeare in one vista rise — 
Explorers of untrodden ways — untaught! 

The one, by conquest, made the earth man's prize. 
The other crystallized the world of thought. 

In Shakespeare's presence Neilson bowed the knee — 
Here later pilgrims come to honor her, 

And here the poet's own memorial tree 
Recalls sweet Juliet's best interpreter. 

O Mother Nature ! these lived near to thee — 
Thy chosen children — born to tell thy truth ; 

And here they keep thy loving company. 
And share the bloom of thine eternal youth. 



MATILDA HERON. 



4^m»^ATILDA HERON had been an invalid 
■^WnWw ^'°'' some years, living in close retirement. 
j|vi_lwVl During this period of seclusion she was also 
~^:^^H0T^^^ the recipient of public and private benefits 
from her professional friends, who never forgot or de- 
serted her, but attentively ministered to her comforts. 
Matilda Heron had a daughter whom she trained for 
professional life. The reciprocal idolatry between 
the mother and daughter was beautiful. The mother 
seemed to be sensible of an incomplete career, and 
she gathered up the wrecks of her hopes and filled 
the girl with their spirit that the daughter might 
complete what the mother left unfinished. The 
daughter was blind to the raggedness of these 
wrecks and regarded her mother as crowned with a 
rosy fame which could never fade. This intercourse 
and confidence was a peculiarly sweet association of 
the invalid's darkened chamber in her latter years. 
Bijou was a bright spark struck out of Matilda 
Heron's being by the flint and steel of circumstances, 
and her life closed in the radiance of its light. 

Matilda Heron was of Irish extraction, and her 
family took up their residence in Philadelphia during 
her early years. She received a seminary education 



36 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

and at an upper window of the seminary Matilda 
Heron dreamed her first dream of fame. The 
stormy applause of the theater shot across the street 
on summer nights and found an echo in the school 
girl's heart. She resolved to become an actress, and 
without the knowledge of her family she placed her- 
self under the instruction of Mr. Peter Richings. 
She proved an apt pupil, and made her debut as 
Bianca in the tragedy of " Fazio." She had already 
mastered the words of five or six of the leading 
heroines of the drama. But she was not qualified 
for a leading lady in a company, and had not the 
prestige to command attention as a star. She was, 
therefore, obliged to come down the ladder and go 
to work at the bottom of it. After years of patient 
toil she set sail for Europe, alone. She went to see 
the world and study her art, and drifted to Paris. 
Here, at the theater one night an incident occurred 
which opened to her a world of hope and promise. 
She was sitting at the play " Camille " absorbed 
in the scenes when some one familiarly tapped 
her on the shoulder, and said, "Tilly, that's a play 
that would make your fortune, if you would trans- 
late it for America." It was Alexander Heron — 
her brother — whom she had not seen or spoken to 
for years, who had given himself this novel re-intro- 
duction. The brother and sister were thus recon- 
ciled, after a long estrangement, and saw Paris 
together. Matilda Heron translated and adapted the 
play for American presentation, and brought it home 
with her. It proved the realization of the school 
girl's dream of fame. 



MEMORIALS. 3/ 



She played Camille, in all, nearly two thousand 
times. The latter part of Matilda Heron's pubhc 
life was somewhat clouded by unfortunate domestic 
relations, but it was still illuminated with brilliant 
memories. She was married in New York to a Mr. 
Robert Stoepel, a musician, and the fruits of this 
union were domestic discontent and two or three 
children, of whom Bijou Heron (Stoepel) is the 
only survivor, and the custodian of her mother's 
name. 

Matilda Heron's life was one of the most romantic 
of stage careers, and towards the last she was pos- 
sessed with an idea of writing it, or having it written. 
The following is an extract from a letter on this sub- 
ject. It is dated San Francisco, October 20, 1872 — 
while she was there attending to the " Heron-Byrne 
case." 

" Possibly you have seen accounts of the ordeal I 
am passing through here, and if so you have learned 
a part of what I have lately suffered. But the great 
Ruler above knows the burning suffering of my 
crushed heart during the past seven years. To Him 
alone I confided my great woe, and still know He 
who doeth all things well will not desert me. I am 
tormented past endurance with the heart sores and 
mental turbulence which the fates have visited upon 
me, for I can not believe that the Healing One has 
had a hand in my most lamentable and pathetic his- 
tory. Religion alone has kept my soul ahve; my 
darling child has preserved my heart. As for my 
body, were it not for those other two divine strengths 
it would have been mouldering long ago. 



38 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

" Now I desire to tell you that I am writing my 
life from the time I was a child seven years old in 
Ireland. When once I spoke to you of writing my 
life, little did I dream then of the clouded chapters 
destined to be added to it. The Heron-Byrne case 
is the most intricate to adjudge that has ever come 
up. In fact it is puzzling every head concerned in it 
except my own — Matilda Heron, plaintiff ; Henry 
Byrne, her husband ; Robert Stoepel, husband No. 
2 ; Edward Carpenter, defendant. We are all a 
pretty set in a pretty mess. The only joke about it 
is that it is poor Camille who has got them into a 
scrape. But to my life. It will be too voluminous, 
I fear. I am now only up to my eighteenth year, 
and I am told by experts that I have written a vol- 
ume already. It will include all that has passed in 
my eventful years, comic, humorous, serious and 
tragic." 

Another letter on the same subject is dated New 
York, September 22, 1873 : — 

" My life sketches are almost completed. My aim, 
indeed my sole purpose, has been to show a faithful 
picture of the struggles, hopes, disappointments, fail- 
ures, successes, clouds and sunshine through which 
an artist may be tempest-tossed upon the sea of am- 
bition and yet triumph in the end. But a holier pur- 
pose far, also, has urged me to this little history, 
namely : To give strength to toiling, struggling youth 
and virtue ; to show that even after daisies, thorns, 
laurels, darkness and failure — with a pure record in 
the past, and faith in heaven at all times, the heart, 
however scarred ; the mind, however racked ; the 



MEMORIALS. 39 



spirit, however broken ; the scorpion sting of ingrati- 
tude, the wreck of our shattered household gods — 
all this, and more and worse, may be and can be 
made well — all soothed, all healed by the glad sun- 
shine of blameless memories, a pure heart, holy pur- 
pose, a determined will and God on our side. There's 
where the heart's-ease comes in." 

These extracts are introduced to show how the 
woman thought of the troubles that beset her, and 
how she derived consolation in the further thought 
that her life history might be of benefit to others. 
Matilda Heron was an erratic genius — in this respect 
not unlike some others who have adorned the stage. 
She was impulsive in the extreme, which trait made 
friends as a magnet picks up needles, and sometimes 
these friends injured her, but she soon forgave their 
stabs. Her impulses were all good. There have 
been longer careers than Matilda Heron's, but none 
more brilliant on the American stage. She came 
out of darkness, like a meteor, swept the skies with 
a wonderful light, and has now faded from sight, 
but her course is still luminous with the glory of her 
art. 



GEORGE KNAPP. 



MAN of the people, he came 
l/|\\f Among humble toilers to toil — 
^JllppX Unfearing his hands to soil, 

And zealous to earn a good name. 

A man 'mid his fellows he rose, 
Of strong and resolute will, 
A mission to follow and fill — 

Admired of his friends and his foes. 

A hero of action and deeds — 

He loved and strove for the right, 
And error was foiled in the fight 

Of popular measures and needs. 

A fast friend of all friends forever; 
The ties he made lasted thro' life. 
Unloosed by fortune or strife — 

Strong bonds that Death only could sever. 

A bulwark of Honor he stood — 
Unsullied as when life began — 
The full years allotted to man, 

And died — beloved, honored and good. 



MEMORIALS. 4 1 



His plodding tracks are evermore defined 
In empire's progress and the march of mind. 
The people's champion — worthy of their trust, 
His pen was mighty, as his cause was just. 
Sincere of purpose, conscious of his sway, 
He raised his hand, and pointed out the way. 
The Nestor of the Press, his name alone 
Outlasts the crumbling monumental stone. 




NATHANIEL PASCHALL. 



VACANT place is here, a soul has flown 
To the dim regions of the vast unknown ; 



:J'W\ A friend we knew and loved, a man of might. 



Has burst his bonds of clay, and joined his 
kindred light. 




In every walk of varied life's career 
A good man is a monarch in his sphere. 
Ambition's farthest goal may be denied — 
A master's mind exults in master-pride ; 
Creates its solace for misfortune's stings. 
And rises grand — above all little things. 
Despite ancestral pomp, and strain of blood. 
The truly great are still the purely good. 



Such was the man we mourn ; in him we knew 
How much of life to one's own self is due. 
His bright example of achieved success. 
Conferring blessings, taught the way to bless. 
Ambitious only for the general weal. 
He felt his mission, and made others feel. 



MEMORIALS. 43 



A man of the Future he stands, 

Assured by his work in the Past ; 
He still lives and labors — while last 

The monuments reared by his hands. 

A man of the People he came — 

Their champion, raised to command ; 
He grew up — a power in the land, 

And history honors his name. 




THREE STAGES. 



DELIVERED AT THE CELEBRATION OF THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNI- 
VERSARY OF THE MERCANTILE LIBRARY, ST. LOUIS, MO. 



THE PIONEER. 




HI HE time and place: No matter when or 
where — 
Suffice it that our ancestors were there, 
Who, with the headstrong passions we pos- 
sess. 
In uncurbed force, subdued a wilderness. 



'Twas somewhere in a broad and sunbright land, 
Ice-walled and seagirt ; one from strand to strand. 
In places where men grew too thick to thrive. 
Like bees they swarmed and formed another hive. 
The hardiest types of industry thus went 
Singing to voluntary banishment, 
Leaving the drones and others well to do — 
Plenty for one, yet not enough for two ; 



THREE STAGES. 45 



But whither bound none knew ; none seemed to care, 
'Twas toward the sunset ; luck go with them there ! 
The gossip said : They bundled up their goods 
And ran a wild-goose chase to some backwoods. 
They'll come to grief and be sold out for debt; 
They're such a roving, dreamy, thriftless set. 
The emigrant was thus consigned to doom 
For worthlessness and morbid want of room. 

At first none know the movers as they wind 
Along the highway, leaving home behind ; 
Far on the way their tattered canvas grows 
Familiar to each blustering wind that blows. 
The toilsome route as by enchantment teems 
With friendly huts and cheery log-fire gleams. 
The sun-browned settlers, from their open door, 
Behold the scene they acted years before. 
The burly wagon leaves no room for doubt ; 
They know the flax-haired children peering out. 
The patient oxen laboring at the tongue, 
The oozy tar-can 'neath the axle swung. 
The dog, fatigued with fruitless range for game. 
Called up, is first made known to them by name. 
The careful wife, who 'mid her household sits 
Enthroned, and gaily singing while she knits; 
The man who urges on his jaded team — 
They know them all in some remembered dream. 



46 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

They know the country — every foot of ground, 
And rock, and tree, and stream for leagues around. 
They know the pressing need that sometimes sends 
A man from home to find his truest friends. 
They know full well he can not reach that day 
Their next door neighbor, twenty miles away ; 
They know the stranger, offer him good cheer, 
And thus they speed the hardy pioneer. 

Though strange at first, the truth he soon must 

own — 
The further gone, the better he is known. 
Where men are few and far, their fates control 
A nearer, dearer sympathy of soul. 
Which robs the distance of its lonesome length 
And gives the friendly hand-shake mystic strength. 
He trusts the inspiration of that grip. 
Which seals the bond of Man's relationship. 
The daring spirit which disturbed his rest 
Sways all the wide expansion of the West, 
And brings his heart where every man can feel 
Its throbbing pulse ; its deepest depths unseal. 
He breathes the prairie air ; his mind responds 
To every breath, and bursts its narrow bonds. 
The common cause makes every man his friend, 
And dreams of power with all his future blend. 

His journey ends — by no blind fall of chance; 
He owes to progress one firm step's advance ; 



THREE STAGES. 4/ 



With hopeful heart, and faith in his strong hand, 
He builds his home beyond the Border-Land, 
The frontier circle strengthens its defense — 
By him extends its vast circumference. 
He wields the forces of new growth and skill ; 
New forms spring up directed by his will. 
He tills the soil, or hammers at his trade. 
And deep foundations of his life are laid. 
He plants — with all its good and evil rife — 
The tree of knowledge by the fount of life; 
The fruit it bears in blest abundance grows. 
And now the desert blossoms as the rose. 

Where no law rules with penalties and pains, 
'Tis held that absolute perfectioh reigns ; 
We find perfection free from blot or flaw — 
The wilds of earth without the need of law — 
Creation's perfect form. Why uncreate. 
That cruder means may build th' imperfect state ? 
Perforce : Since first the roll of dates began 
'Twas said and sung the world was made for man. 
And if for man, 'twas needful, as 'twas due. 
That something still was left for him to do ; 
And since the primal world began to move. 
Progress implied the margin to improve. 

All through this region of the rose and vine 

Are pilgrims plodding toward some mountain shrine, 



48 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The belt of thrift extending o'er their track, 
With hand to plough, and never looking back ; 
The wild herds driving from their lessening range, 
And yielding fruits to nature's law of change ; 
Benign crusaders, innocent of fame, 
Who Holy Lands from barren sloth reclaim. 
And draw from labor's almoner bright coin 
Of honest ring, which greed can not purloin. 

The pioneer, cast out, has found a clime 
Beyond the range of twin-born law and crime. 
The civic law that cramped his means for bread, 
The social crime of begging to be fed ; 
Escaped from bondage, he a freeman grew. 
And from the waste he moulds the world anew. 
He grasps the hills — they to his sinews yield ; 
He treads the plain, and springs the fallow field. 
For battle primed, he ploughs and sows and reaps ; 
His armor guards his pillow while he sleeps. 
All nature is at war with him ; his foes 
Poison the air, taint every brook that flows ; 
His cabin is besieged from hill and glen 
By savage beasts and still more savage men. 
His rifle is his law, and none can blame 
Its sentence rendered with unerring aim. 
Full triumph crowns the prowess of his hand. 
And brings his home within the Border-Land. 
From such a shoot springs many a family tree, 
And who would scorn such noble ancestry? 



THREE STAGES. 49 



THE MERCHANT. 

The scene is changed. No more the howling waste. 
Queen Beauty reigns with nature's jewels graced, 
Where gloomed the woodland, wave the flags of 

corn, 
And roses bloom where spread the prickly thorn. 
Where deep in woods one shadowy hut was seen, 
Bright groups of dwellings nestle on the green. 
The savage beasts and savage men are gone 
Together, with their hunter following on. 
Their tracks of fire and blood are overgrown ; 
The monumental mounds remain alone. 

The pioneer has ripened in renown ; 
His cabin is the oldest house in town. 
And he the oldest citizen, whose tongue 
Is rich in marvels for the old a^nd young. 
He tells them what his rash adventures cost ; 
How one dark night his youngest child was lost; 
And how another bright and manly boy — 
A father's hope, a mother's darling joy — 
Pursuing hostile bands — a tearful tale — 
Fell at his side upon the Indian trail. 
And how the savage yells then rent the air. 
And war-paint brightened with its demon glare, 
When flashing shots revealed the ambuscade. 
And shot for shot death-dealing havoc made. 



50 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Heroic deeds forever past and gone — 
Dim memory's pension old age lives upon ! 
The shining links of sturdy manhood cast, 
Which bind the present to the lusty past. 

The backwoodsman, one day, in loath surprise. 

Saw curling smoke from other chimneys rise ; 

One, two, three, four; andsoon they closed him round. 

It seemed they left him scarce an inch of ground. 

The scattering town became a trading mart — 

A halting place to gather strength and heart. 

For danger's front on plains unknown before. 

Which swept in grandeur toward the golden shore. 

Before the plateau where the village stood, 

A wide majestic river poured his flood, 

Far southward dashing on his heaving breast 

The gathered waters of the great Northwest. 

Down from the frozen cloud-land of the North 

This genius of the valley wanders forth, 

Distilling snows beneath his vapory wings 

To strew his southern course with cooling springs. 

He touches with his watery wand the hills. 

And dancing down their sides come laughing rills, 

Which mingle colors as they onward glide 

And paint the landscape spread on every side. 

Flushed by the river-god's engaging wiles, 

The country's face breaks forth in joyous smiles. 



THREE STAGES. 5 I 



Upon the upland plain he lays his hand, 
And marvellous cities rise at his command — 
Endowed with all that nature's stores can give, 
The magic of his spirit bids them live. 
Unbarred he rolls upon his wheeling throne 
From endless snow to endless summer's zone, ^ 

And pours out treasures for the people's needs. 
Who call him " Father " for his generous deeds. 

The frontier city, fed with such supplies, 

Becomes the object of its own surprise. 

From barbarous tribes against its growth arrayed 

It draws its life by alchemy of trade. 

The traders move their post to mountains far 

Where trappers roam and wage their savage war ; 

The forts are razed, block houses disappear, 

And merchants count their thousands year by year. 

The mighty river bears upon his breast 

The teeming products of the great Northwest. 

Still one reproach ! The bane of envy's breast — 
Some one pronounced it good — but like the West. 
The merchant, heaping riches year by year, 
A grain of truth discerned beneath the sneer. 
He saw it was not progress to sit down 
And let the river cultivate the town. 
So gathered up his wits to put at rest 
The noisy humdrum rattled at the West. 



52 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

He planned, with hope of good results to flow, 

A trade, and traffic, and industrial show ; 

Where each should bring the thing to demonstrate 

How men could make a city grandly great, 

They came — the merchants with their stuffs and 

wares. 
They came — the farmers with their shining shares ; 
They came — the builders with design and draft ; 
They came — mechanics with their handicraft. 
Huge stacks appeared of various stuffs for bread ; 
Of Indian weed, and iron ore, and lead : 
Of furs and clothing there was many a pack, 
And precious stones — for building; diamonds — 

black. 
And hemp and cotton products — bale and coil — 
And all the wealth of corn, and wine, and oil. 
But one, a deep-brow'd man of studious looks. 
Came bending with a cumbrous load of books. 
Some others laughed at him, but some there were 
Who praised the impulse that had led him there. 
He thus addressed them : 

In these honored tomes 
We find the surest pledge of happy homes; 
The rest is trash, if culture be denied — 
More rich than all our treasure-house beside. 
With giant strength impelled by youthful fire, 
We swamp the wheels of progress in the mire. 



THREE STAGES. $3 



When education lags so far behind 

The pride of fortune and the need of mind. 

The age demands another class of books 

Than balanced ledgers, or the running brooks. 

It asks for libraries, and mental tools, 

And learned colleges, and public schools — 

In them the spirits of the world's great men 

Forever dwell, and live with us again. 

Invite them here : accept their helping hand 

To move our city from the Border Land ; 

And found a central mart round which may roll 

North, South, East, West — a true commercial pole. 

Let us the law of equity obey. 

And render sterling justice, come what may : 

We're now in court to try our people's cause. 

And plead revival of high social laws : 

I've brought these text-books for our empty shelves ; 

They read the law of justice to ourselves — 

That solid basis upon which shall stand 

Our wealth, our power, our station in the land. 

They heard his words: they gave one ringing cheer; 

The first result: we may behold it here. 

THE STATESMAN. 

Tne purer springs of being sweetly swell 
As from the depths of life's artesian well. 
Through digging deep the crystal waters flow 
To quench the thirst contracted long ago. 



5-1- THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The new life dawns 'mid novel sights and sounds, 
And routine wanders from its beaten rounds. 
The solemn slumber of the good old times 
Awoke one morning roused by merrier chimes : 
Dear slow coach customs bred of by-gone days 
Were jostled from the track by iron ways : 
The lightning's wing was summoned from the sun 
To do earth's errands, post boy's feet had run. 
High arches lightly springing over streams. 
Had realized in form our spirit-dreams — 
Clothed in the penciled bows prismatic sheen. 
Born of two worlds, with just a span between. 
Both space and time had yielded to the sway 
Of subtle forces mixed with human clay : 
Distance dissolved ; and in the lives of men 
One year contained the former breadth of ten. 
What more can come as earth's increasing dower ? 
What more can magnify man's realm of power? 

The soul of art — restoring by its grace 

The lost ideal of a perfect race. 

The forms of art — by which the struggling poor 

May own a world of beauty at their door. 

The moulds in which their better selves they see, 

And learn that labor is nobility. 

The blocks rough-hewn of which our temple stands 
Were squared and laid by wisdom's loving hands : 



THREE STAGES. 55 



Expanding zeal has not its strength outgrown, 
And plastic beauty dwells within the stone. 

Of highest endeavor in our times of strife, 

The statesman wears the crown of civil life. 

He grasps the meaning of the moving scene — 

His country's honor towering in his mien ; 

He breathes the blast, or lulls the storms of state 

A part of every storm that makes him great ; 

He stamps the laws of nations with his name ; 

Among their archives lives his ripened fame. 

His life is one great prayer to recreate 

A perfect world within a perfect state : 

The greater in the less — so progress tends, 

And so forever fails to reach its ends : 

Save in the charming semblance which it draws 

Of peace, beyond the changing sphere of laws. 

Happy the land whose sons supremely great 
Pronounced the people sovereign in the state ; 
Who, by the West the way of Empire planned 
To reach again their Eastern Fatherland, 
Whose beacons flash far o'er the circling seas, 
And light the rear of darkened centuries. 

Honor to him whose prescient sight begun 
To look for India toward the setting sun. 
Whose mind far-piercing saw the coming day, 
When passless heights would bear the iron way. 



56 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Crags yielded to his voice that never bent 
Before the storms that shook the firmament. 
He spoke : the truth was Hving on his tongue, 
And with his words the world's horizon rung : 
There is the East. Beyond the mountains where 
The sun sank down, we went, and found it there. 
Bright, burning words — fit crown for his career; 
Star of the West ! The brightest in our sphere. 
Until the world in swallowing darkness drops 
His light will linger on the mountain tops. 
We, with the daring which his presence lent 
Should hew a mountain for his monument ! 
High on its peak, in characters of flame 
Among the stars should glitter Benton's name. 

The human stream long stagnant at its source. 
In dashing westward gained in breadth and force. 
The mantling pool with face unruffled lies 
Still, staring sphinx-like at the Indian skies. 
The living waters rolled with freshening sweep 
And man became a boisterous, billowy deep. 
The mass contained fierce elements of war. 
And lashed by storms, the clouds were borne afar. 
Until they fell 'mid peaceful rainbow gleams, 
And other fountains nourished other streams. 
The desert, laughing, woke with glad surprise. 
And other gardens bloomed 'neath other skies. 
Beneath the sky-emblazoned banner bright. 



THREE STAGES. 



57 



The currents sparkle with a living light, 

And carry to the sunset's crimson bars 

The glow of all our galaxy of stars : 

Resistless foams and pours the surging host 

Adown the mountains of the golden coast : 

Impetuous, free and scorning tranquil ease 

They leap the west-gate of the Indian seas. 

As from the clouds they seek their place of birth 

And draw a living girdle 'round the earth. 

The light which fades from evening's closing eyes 

Bursts through the opening lids of morning skies. 

The setting beam by tall Sierras hid 

Awakes the dawn on mosque and pyramid : 

The East and West merge worlds across the main. 

And guard their compact with a golden chain. 

Our country : When in song we speak thy name. 
We give thee his whose 'twas by rightful claim, 
Columbia — daughter of a virgin clime — 
Thou grandest figure in the halls of Time : 
Exalted, thou canst view on either hand 
Thy kindred peoples drawn from every land, 
Far as thy vision bears, deep waving shades 
Surround savannas green and blooming glades. 
The fairest types of every product known, 
In rich abundance cluster in thy zone. 
Around thy waist a dazzling armor gleams 
With spreading lakes and rippling silver streams. 



5S THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Thy delicate hands the trenchant blade can wield 
In danger's hour, or till the peaceful field. 
Thy bosom swells with pride for labor done, 
And hope for greater things yet scarce begun. 
Beneath thy feet expands the gulf's deep stream, 
Warmed by the fervid equatorial beam. 
Thy face is bright with youth's eternal glow ; 
Alaska wreathes thy brow with pearls of snow. 

Our country calls : her sons obey the voice 
Which summons to her side her men of choice ; 
An old tradition — which is told to teach, 
Preserves in words like these her rnaiden speech : 
I am the people — in their name addressed; 
I am the people — by their will expressed. 
The people's difference, and their will are one 
Their verdict makes each man a sovereign ; 
Through me he speaks, oh may his mandate be 
An utterance worthy him, and worthy me. 
Then elevate the people to that height 
Which sweeps the scope of every human right ; 
In universal culture thrives the tree 
Which bears the ripened fruit of Liberty. 
'Tis education lifts high over all 
Your fair ideal on its pedestal ; 
Uphold it there, while Time his cycle runs. 
By all the love your fathers bore their sons ; 



THREE STAGES. $9 



To Freedom sacred, and the feared of wrong, 
The boast of story, and the loved of song. 

Columbia — daughter of a virgin clime. 
Reaps for the world the richest fruits of Time. 
Of humble strain, and yet of royal mien ; 
A subject born — in majesty a queen. 
She serves and reigns, on deeds of glory bent 
To lead in freedom's van a continent. 
Aloft, her ensigns' noble breadth unfurled 
Proclaims glad tidings all around the world. 
The stately monarch of the Flo wry Land 
Upon his walls accepts her friendly hand ; 
There dawns on earth a new creation's morn ; 
The oldest empire greets the youngest born — 
Whose mighty mission, thus begun, will end, 
When all the nations as one people blend. 




LITTLE PEOPLE'S POEMS. 



WILLIE CLARK. 




^OTHER, move a little nearer — I'm so 
lonely in the dark — 
:!fe^^LL Tell me over, please, that story of poor 
^ "" little Willie Clark. 

How I cried when I first heard it, yet it drove away 

the pain; 
Doctor says my fever's better — mother, make me 
cry again. 

There — I hold thy hand, my darling — I remember 

it quite well ; 
If 'twill smooth thy painful pillow I will Willie's 

story tell. 
Willie's name is in the court-books, blotted with a 

fearful crime ; 
All is true as Bible-reading, though I tell it thee in 

rhyme. 

Willie's mother was a widow, all alone but for her 

boy; 
She had neither friend nor fortune — Willie was her 

only joy. 



LITTLE people's POEMS. 6l 



In an old abandoned shanty, buil't by workmen long 

before, 
She had lived by thread and needle — no one ever 

passed her door. 

Willie's home was near the railway, where his cries 

and cradle-strains 
Mingled with the engine's shrieking and the rumble 

of the trains. 
All went whirling, roaring 'round him, and his mind 

received a scare 
That confined it to the cradle, and his mother 

watched it there. 

P'ifteen springs had nursed and reared him, and his 

form grew tall and strong. 
While in thought he crawled an infant — groping 

creeping, slow along, 
In his home he shone a sunbeam — innocent of 

earth's alloy, 
And a mother's double-darling was her feeble-minded 

boy. 

Still she went on singing to him all her string of 

baby strains, 
'Mid the shrieking of the engines and the roaring 

of the trains ; 



62 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Striving with a great heart-yearning in her every 

look and tone, 
To arouse the sleeping sense and teach the mind to 

stand alone. 

All in vain ; he would not waken when 'twas time to 

go to school. 
Playmates, when he spoiled their playing, called him 

simpleton and fool. 
Willie never minded mocking, though it grieved his 

* mother sore, 
And for all the jeers and joking mother loved him 

more and more; 

Talked to him of hope and fortune, as a mother 

only can ; 
Pictured him a happy future — when he grew to be 

a man ; 
Worked for him with busy fingers ; at his baby 

prattle smiled ; 
She had many a mother's wish — her son would 

always be a child. 

Willie's life was not all barren, Nature is not so 

unkind. 
For she gave him heart, to fill the stinted measure 

of his mind. 



LITTLE people's POEMS. 63 

Being's currents stayed and rippled 'round the fount 

of motherhood : 
Mother loved him, he loved her, and these two 

things he understood. 

Though he never wandered from her very far in way 

of harm. 
Wonder drew him to the railway, where the danger 

seemed to charm : 
Wonder what the rails were laid for ; wonder what 

the travel meant ; 
Wonder where the railway started ; wonder where 

the railway went ; 

Wonder why grown up men play with engines on a 

bridge's span ; 
Wonder if he'd have such playthings when he grew 

to be a man. 
Once a horror came while he was looking on in 

wondering vein ; 
'Twas the dashing of an engine, and the crashing 

of a train. 

Willie, frightened, hurried homeward — in his terror 

looking back, 
For there was a railroad horror, and a ruin — off the 

track. 



64 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

He was caught and put in prison. Why ? The boy 

could never tell; 
Jailers and detectives only saw him crouching in his 

cell. 

Prison — at a railroad station, in an old-time country 

town, 
With its lock-up in the basement, for the house was 

tumbling down. 
There he fed on sick'ning vapors, and his life was 

wasted far 
When they brought him up for trial and arraigned 

him at the bar. 

Lawyers pleaded in the court-room, turning over 

their big books, 
All the while the pallid prisoner gazed around with 

wond'ring looks. 
Judge and jury sat to try him in the law's unerring 

light; 
There was death in that disaster, and the court was 

clothed with might. 

Engine driver said that cordwood on the rails had 

been the snare. 
Chief detective said the culprit had confessed he 

put it there ; 



LITTLE people's POEMS. 6$ 

Said the boy was playing idiot, feigning weakness 

in the brain. 
Verdict: "Guilty" — killing, wounding men and 

women on the train. 

Verdict, guilty ! Mother heard it ; she had been a 

witness too ; 
Tried with simple truth to shield him, but her story 

would not do. 
Agonized, she sprang to greet him with a woful, 

pleading wail. 
Then she got the court's permission to be with him 

in the jail. 

Oh ! the shadows of a dungeon — underground and 

dark and chill. 
How that mother watched beside her darling, stricken 

deathly ill. 
Hoping vainly for a pardon, she beguiled the dark 

to-day, 
Telling him : " To-morrow, Willie, maybe you can 

go and play." 

Pitying angels came to try him in the highest court 

of all. 
Of that Judge who keeps a record of the smallest 

sparrow's fall ; 



66 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Weeks and months the angels pleaded, and the 

mother pressed her right, 
And the little convict wondered why the time was 

always night. 

" What's the matter, dearest mother, is it never, 

never day? 
I am tired, — so tired of resting; when may I go 

out to play ? 
Hark ! it thunders up above us ; there, I hear the 

rumbling plain." 
" Yes, dear ; 'tis the rushing engine, and the roaring 

of a train." 

" O ! I thought it was the anger of our Father in 
the skies." 

" No, child ; He is Love and Mercy, and our every 
good supplies. 

Wait ! to-morrow, if you're better — who knows ? 
you may go and play." 

" Mother, here is no to-morrow — never comes an- 
other day." 

On his face a glow of reason, like the flush of dawn 

appears ; 
Mother marks the stunted mind grow to the stature 

of its years. 



LITTLE people's POEMS. 6/ 

" Tell me, Willie, that's a darling, tell me all — keep 

nothing hid ; 
Did you, never meaning mischief, do the thing they 

said you did ? " 

Willie rises on his pillow : " Mother, some man 

came to me, 
Saying: 'If you'll say you did it, I have come to 

set you free. 
Willie, want to see your mother?' 'Oh! dear — 

yes, indeed I do ; 
Take me to her, and there's nothing that I will not 

do for you.' 

* Say you did it, that's a good boy ; ' and he opened 

wide that door; 
' Say you didn't, and you'll never see the sunshine 

any more.' 
I said ' yes ; ' " and Willie's face beamed bright as 

morn, and saintly fair; 
" Mother, he told me to say so — but I never put it 

there." 

Innocent ! She knew it always. Now his mind has 

come to light. 
Son and mother cleave together through the long 

hours of the night. 



6S 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



Morning comes ; a troop of angels find a new and 

shining joy, 
While the mother in that darkness clasps the form 

of her dead boy. 




MARY, WHO HAD THE LITTLE LAMB. 




" Mary had a little lamb, 

Its fleece was white as snow, 
And everywhere that Mary went 
The lamb was sure to go." 

^j^UT that was when our Mary romped 
In garden, field and lawn ; 
A rosy child, with cherry lips, 
And bright-eyed as the dawn ; 
When she was fairer than the spring, 

And trusting, loving, good. 
And sweeter than the summer rose — 
A bud of maidenhood. 

She was the sunlight of her home, 

And made it springtime there. 
When all the birds and flowers were gone, 

And trees and fields were bare. 
She had her little playmates then, 

And pets and toys — a host ; 
But of the things she liked the best, 

She loved her lamb the most. 



70 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

She grew. The years went ghding by 

The tender bud has blown, 
A lamb is still at Mary's side — 

A lamb she calls her own. 
A change had come — another love 

Had been her proudest boast, 
And of the things that she liked best. 

She loved her husband most. 

With maiden beauty's magic spell 

She drew him to her side. 
And where the lamb had been before. 

He stood with manly pride. 
But he was gone ; and tearful eyes 

Had dewed the cold, gray stone. 
He left her in a sorrowing world 

But left her not alone. 

For Mary has a little lamb. 

With soul as white as snow. 
And every place where Mary goes 

The lamb is sure to go. 
She does not skip as once she did — 

Her life is clouded now — 
And yet the old smile lingers there 

Upon a sadder brow ; 

Enough of youth and hope remain 
To cheer the thoughtful calm ; 



LITTLE PEOPLE S POEMS. 



And Still we have the picture sweet 

Of Mary and her lamb. 
A world has bloomed and passed away 

And left no murmuring ghost ; 
Of all the things she ever loved 

She loves her lamb the most. 

The golden cord by which 'tis led 

Links her to all the past, 
And an unbroken chain of love 

May lead her home at last. 
Another change, the cord is snapped 

On which her hopes relied, 
The purest lamb of all has joined 

The other lambs that died. 

They lead her now by memory's cord 

Where fadeless roses blow. 
And night and morn, to where they rest, 

Is Mary sure to go. 
A simple emblem o'er their dust 

Doth Mary's love embalm. 
She kneels upon their tomb and clasps 

The image of a lamb. 

As when the summer sun has sunk 

In early evening rest, 
A flood of bright, reflected beams 

Still gilds the rosy west, 



72 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



So, at the tomb of early love, 
Is Mary's heart made whole 

By memory's sweet and holy calm 
The twilight of the soul. 




BLOOMING CHRISTMAS TREE. 



A CHILDREN'S HOLIDAY GLEE. 



"*#'^E'LL sing a song in happy tune, 
/ V/||- About our sunny blossom-time — 
■^^ l|2-i/ Not spanned by April, May and June, 

But all year round in every clime. 
Tho' Christmas comes in winter drear 

When earth and sky are hung with gloom, 
It glows — the blossom of the year — 
And keeps our little lives in bloom. 

For fruit and flower hang together, 

And all the air is full of glee ; 
And all the year is shining weather 

Around our blooming Christmas tree. 

Now old and young are children all. 

And every heart and face is gay ; 
We wake to " Merry Christmas " call, 

And Christmas is the children's day. 
Then let us laugh, and romp, and sing, 

Rejoicing in our blossom-time, 
Which makes the season always spring, 

And brings the flow'rs in every clime. 



74 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

For all the world is bright before us, 
And heart and face are full of glee ; 

And happy voices ring in chorus 

Around our blooming Christmas tree. 

Good Santa Claus we honor thee — 

Saint Nich'las and Kris Kringle, too - 
And be you one, or be you three, 

We all agree in loving you ; 
We only know the time is bright, 

And that your spirit beams above ; 
We only know that Love is Light, 

And Christmas light is perfect love. 

For here are loving father, mother, 
To join us in our ringing glee ; 

And here are darling sister, brother 
Around our blooming Christmas tree. 




BABY BROWN-EYES. 




^t.-mABY — with brown, flowing hair 
i^x,j^ RippHng over forehead fair, 



Like a brook from springs of air ; 



Baby — with brown lustrous eyes — 
Jewels dropped by bounteous skies — 
Souvenirs of Paradise. 

Innocence, and peace, and calm 
Of the morning breathing balm, 
When the silence is a psalm. 

Beautiful ! Her wondering gaze 
At the world in rapt amaze. 
Through the curtained golden haze. 

Shrinking from the touch of earth. 
Clutching the sweet rose of birth. 
Glowing with dumb dimpled mirth. 

Looking down from Life's white brink, 
Helpless, thought and tongue to link. 
How and what does Baby think ? 



"](> THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Puzzled by a shadowy doubt, 
As her glances cast about, 
Whether to look in or out. 

Does she hear close whisperings ? 
Does she see the shapes and things 
Of a former time of wings? 

Little prisoned spirit, bright — 
Incandescent holy light. 
Shining in a realm of night. 

Thou wilt beautify thy clay — 
Turning darkness into day — 
Cheering others on their way. 

Baby Brown-eyes — Life is pain; 
Every touch of earth a stain, 
Till thy lost wings come again. 




CHERRY CHEEKS. 



^1*1 CHILD with all the budding good 
)flf\(. That ripens rich in womanhood ; 
i^^ A little lump of moulded clay — 
Vivacious, beautiful and gay, 
Just lighted up with dawn's first streaks. 
And that is little Cherry Cheeks. 



Her pattering feet go everywhere ; 
Her breath is incense in the air ; 
Her pretty presence in our room 
Drives out the lurking ghosts of gloom ; 
The music in the words she speaks 
Is printed plain in Cherry Cheeks. 

She plays with spring-time's frolic hours, 
And catches colors from the flowers — 
The sweetest, fairest rays of light — 
And shines with them all day and night; 
A sprite of merry romps and freaks 
Is cheery little Cherry Cheeks. 




LITTLE GIRL, LIDA. 



WHO "HAD AS LIEF BE IN HEAVEN. 




REAR LIDA, I heard of thy illness with pain, 
/jn) And now I'm so glad thou art right well again. 
We have to be sick some, the wise people tell, 
To know just how goody it feels to be well. 
I'm all over happy to have thy nice letter. 
So pretty and loving, — it could not be better; — 
Surprised me too, really ; and 'most made me cry 
With joy, that our Lida did not go and die. 
Though Heaven, they say, is a very good place. 
We want Earth made brighter, with youth, love and 

grace. 
Thy staying among us for yet a good while 
Will light all our faces, with many a smile. 
Don't think any more, dear, of going above — 
Not yet — while so many are down here to love, 
Be good and be gentle, be brave and love-giving, 
And all will be well, and thy life be worth living. 
That's all I need say in this rhyme, Lida, dear; 
I wish thee good health and a Happy New Year. 

January i, 1885. 



TINY TINA. 




^INY CHRISTINA — that's Tina 



Elfin-like frolicsome child ; 
Nobody lives who has seen a 
Being more charmingly wild. 
Wild as the wind, and as airy ; 

Bounding from touch of the earth ; 
Light as the form of a fairy, 
Full of the genius of mirth. 



Born by the brightest of waters ; — 

Fresher than face of the stream ; 
Fairer than Fancy's own daughters, — 

Worshipped in many a dream, — 
Tina is wiser and quainter. 

Mentally standing alone ; 
Artist nor poet can paint her — 

Sweet little girl of her own. 




SONGS AND BALLADS. 



BELLE BRANDON. 



Y^ 



IWHERE'S a tree by the margin of a woodland ; 
\^ Where spreading leafy boughs sweep the 
ground ; 

There's a path leading thither o'er the prairie, 
To a silence and solitude profound. 
There often have I rambled in the evening 

When the breezes came rose-laden o'er the lea ; 
There I found the little beauty Belle Brandon, 
And we met 'neath the old arbor tree. 



Belle Brandon was the daughter of a woodman 

Whose brawn made the forest copses ring ; 
Indian blood of a red roving chieftain 

Tinged her veins from a far mountain spring. 
Barefoot she bounded o'er the prairie. 

True, keeping her trysting time with me ; 
For I loved the little beauty Belle Brandon, 

And we both loved the old arbor tree. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



8l 



On the trunk of the arbor tree, remaining, 

Are two names with mossy fringe o'ergrown ; 
Mated there in the bond of young devotion — 

Belle Brandon — the other is my own. 
Now I wend to the woodside lonely dreaming 

Of the Beautiful I never more shall see ; 
For I've lost the little beauty Belle Brandon, 

And she sleeps 'neath the old arbor tree. 




LADY BEAUTY. 



ADY BEAUTY, 'tis the merry Spring Time, 

'•^ And the bees are coquetting with the bloom ; 

But the roses and the flowers, now in prime, 

Fade and fall in an early autumn tomb. 

Lady Beauty, you are blooming as the Spring, 

And the loves are coquetting with your heart ; 
Oh, listen to the symphony they sing 
'Ere the dying tones falter and depart. 

Lady Beauty, now your mirrored face, bright 

As the wild rose reflected from the stream. 
Tells of happy, happy days of delight 

All enwrapped in the glamour of a dream. 
Ponder, darling, on the ebbing of the tide, 

To the sea those untiring waters move ; 
They murmur yet they sparkle as they glide, 

For they haste to the ocean of their love. 

Lady Beauty, prize the merry Spring Time, 

While the flowers along your pathway are bright ; 
Spring and winter both come in every clime. 

And the morning dawns — harbinger of night. 
Lady Beauty, I have loved you true and long, 

Can I not your heart's dearest passion move? 
Oh, listen to the pleading of my song — 

Come in joy to the ocean of my love. 



THINE AND MINE. 



DUET. 




She- 



AY I sit-down, and dream with thee, 

Beneath the blooming greenwood tree, 
And hold that hand of thine ? 

While every fluttering leaf above 
Is whispering its tale of love 

Oh, I would whisper mine ! 
Then let me sit and dream with thee 
Beneath the blooming greenwood tree. 

To shield from harm 

My circling arm 
Around thee I'll entwine ; 

A bird of weary wing 

I'll rest and sing 
A song of thine and mine. 

Come sit thee down and dream with me 
Beneath the softly whispering tree ; 

Thou'rt weary wandering far, 
And while the twinkling eyes of night 
Are looking down in calm delight. 

We'll choose our dwelling star. 



84 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Yes, sit thee down and dream with me 
Beneath the blooming greenwood tree. 

To guide from harm 

My circHng arm 
Around thee I'll entwine ; 

Two birds of weary wing 

We'll rest and sing 
A song of thine and mine. 

Both — 

We're sitting here in rapture dear, 
And there is none to make us fear ; 
Our hands are clasped in bliss. 
I shall be true the wide world through, 
And now there's nothing left to do 

But seal the bond with, — this ! 
Sweet dreaming o'er the joy to be 
Beneath the blooming greenwood tree. 

To ward off harm 

My circling arm 
Around thee I'll entwine; 

Our souls of daring wing 

Will soar and sing 
This song of thine and mine. 



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CITHERN SONG. 




OME to our concert hall, 

Listen to the ringing 
Chorus of minstrels all 
Sweetening the air. 
Come to the leafy land 

Where the voices singing 
Tune with the organ grand 
Nature builded there. 

Chorus : 

Listen to the cithern 

Twit-ter-ing — twit-ter-ing, 
Chirping like birdling 

All the summer long, 
Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, 

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. 
Listen to the cithern's 

All summer song. 

List to the music swell — 

Mingled song and string band, 

Meadow and flowery dell 
Warbling in the grove ; 



86 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Drink at the fountain head 
Bubbhng in the springland — 

Wine of the passion red 
Blushing flame of love. 

C/io. : Listen to the cithern, etc. 

Stand 'neath the open sky, 

Listen to the choristers 
Chanting an anthem high. 

Sounding far and wide. 
See they are circling some 

Beauty of the foresters : 
All to the wedding come. 

Singing for the bride. 

C/io. : Listen to the cithern, etc. 

Bask in the sunny sweet. 

Golden haze of dreaming 
Where tiny tinkling feet 

Trip the elfin air. 
Float in the tiding sound 

Toward Elysium streaming, 
Wake at the mating ground ; 

All of life is there. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 8/ 



Chorus : 

Listen to the cithern, 

Twit-ter-ing — twit-ter-ing, 
Merrily ting — ding-a-dong, 

Ting-a-Hng — ting-a-hng, 
Twit-ter-ing — twit-ter-ing, 

Twit-twit — twit-ter-ing, 
Hark to the cithern song. 




AMONG THE DAISIES. 




Y^^WjLARABEL lived among the daisies, 
Hid from the gaze of men. 
Thrush and robin carolled her praises — 
Sweet in the copse and glen. 
Mirror had she — none but the water 

Clear as a crystal ray ; 
Gay as a lark, — the gardener's daughter 

Chanted the livelong day. 
Suitors a plenty sought to woo her 

Coming from far and near ; 
Talking of love and nonsense to her — 
Clarabel would not hear. 

Clarabel loved among the daisies — 

Loved as purely as they ; 
Farmer William adored her graces — 

Vowed to love her for aye ! 
While he wooed her, the flowers shone brighter 

Under her lightsome tread. 
When she loved him her heart grew lighter, 

Fairer the skies o'erhead. 
Speak ! Oh ! will you be mine forever ? 

Breathed his heart with a thrill ! 
Sweeter music was warbled never — 

Clarabel smiled — I v/ill. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 89 

Clarabel wed among the daisies 

Which she had loved so well, 
Thrush and robin joined in her praises, 

So did the old church bell. 
Tidy and sweet her cot is smiling 

Close by the village green ; 
Family joys her hours beguiling — 

Clarabel reigns a queen. 
Daisies are {)lentier there than ever — 

Grown in the soil of Love, 
Thrush and robin had warbled never — 

Sweet as the peaceful dove. 




BALLAD. 

ffMh, PAINTER, who half was a poet, 
r// V ¥ ^^^ visions of Art and her might ; 
4^4^ She dazzled his spirit with beauty, 

And flooded his soul with her light. 
Then grasping his palette and pencil, 

He strolled in the meadows with Spring ; 
She sported her favorite vesture, 

And prayed bim to paint her or sing. 

He sat 'neath the arch of a rainbow 

Which garnished the skirts of a shower. 
And smiled through the tears of the springtime 

At evening's contemplative hour. 
His pencil he dipped in wild roses. 

And from them the colors he drew: 
Fair lady, behold his ideal ! — 

A mem'ry-drawn picture of you. 

The memory — brightest reflector 

Of beauty which beams on its face — 
Will cherish the image forever, 

And ne'er lose a feature of grace. 
Oh, spurn not the work as unworthy — 

The tracing may fail to be true, 
Yet in the pure colors of nature 

There must be a likeness of you ! 



SCOTIA. 



ST. ANDREW'S DAY GLEE. 




^[^t/HE Nor' wind blows, 
The thistle grows 
O'er Bruce and Wallace' dust, 
We'll sing a rhyme 
O' Scotland's prime; 
Her wild harp shall not rust. 
Thou land o' song, 
To thee belong 
The brightest bays of yore ; 
Thy chiels revere 
Thy mem'ry dear, 
And, dreaming, haunt thy shore. 

Chorus: 

The Nor' wind blows, 
The thistle grows 
O'er Bruce and Wallace' dust. 
We'll sing a rhyme 
O' Scotland's prime ; 
Her wild harp shall not rust. 



92 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

There Burn's sweet muse 

The Highland strews 
Wi' flowers and heathery bloom ; 

The gowans gleam 

By Afton's stream 
To deck thy minstrel's tomb. 

Scott's wondrous lyre 

Still thrills wi' fire 
The longing plowman swain ; 

The brightest rays 

O' genius blaze 
In Allan Ramsey's strain. 

Cho. : The Nor' wind blows, etc. 

We sing wi' pride 

Our mither — bride, 
Our sister — a' that's dear; 

And bright beams shine 

For auld lang syne 
In mem'ry's gilded tear. 

Wi' ivy crowned, 

The bowl goes round 
For Caledonia's boast. 

High Fame's award — 

The peasant bard — 
The Ayrshire plowman toast ! 

Cho.: The Nor' wind blows, etc. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 93 

The lasses fair 

Shall claim our prayer, 
And each fond feeling move. 

Where breathes the Scot 

Whose soul does not 
Our " Highland Mary " love ? 

Bright woven wreaths 

Of ivy leaves 
Have cheered our festive seene, 

And as we gang 

Thro' life alang 
We'll wear them ever green. 

Cho. : The Nor' wind blows, etc. 




GUARD OF LAND AND SEA. 



^ANNER proudly floating 
^^ Over land and sea, 
i^dJ' Full of starry splendor — 
Emblem of the free ! 
Blood upon its border. 

White unspotted too ! 
Still as true as heaven 
Gleams the radiant Blue ! 

Chorus : 

Banner proudly floating 

Over land and sea, 
Full of starry splendor — 

Emblem of the free. 

Lo ! the olden army — 

Freedom's matchless band — 
'Mid the roar of battle 

'Round that banner stand. 
O'er them soars the eagle, 

Guard of land and sea, 
Bathed in golden sunlight. 

Brooding victory. 

Cho. : Banner proudly floating, etc. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 95 

O ye sons and daughters 

Of the brave who fell, 
Prize the badge of glory, 

Guard their banner well. 
'Neath its folds a nation 

Spreads from East to West, 
Circled by the oceans — 

Every climate blest ! 

Cho. : Banner proudly floating, etc. 

Banner of our country. 

Proud in peace or war. 
Let them not be blotted. 

Not a single star ! 
Ever and forever 

Peaceful may they be. 
Bound in happy union — 

All, from sea to sea. 

Cho.: Banner proudly floating, etc 




BOND AND SHIELD. 




HEN Freedom triumphant came out of the 

strife 
'J) 
J Which justice and valor had won ; 

She cast off her armor in fulness of life, 

And held her bright shield to the sun. 

Upon it was pictured her future domain — 
Great cities her empire would found ; 

And mountain, and valley, and forest, and plain. 
And ocean encircled it round. 

The goddess disbanded her warrior host ; 

Her conquering mission was done; 
Divided — the cause of mankind had been lost — 

United — the struggle was won. 

She gave them her shield, with the broad sunny land. 

The half of the earth to control ; 
She gave them her armor, and badge of command, 

And took their sworn bond for the whole. 

Tl)e people who battled, were strong in the might. 
Which won them a realm and a name ; 

A nation united, was strong in the right. 
Which yielded it glory and fame. 



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ARABEL KNITTING. 



^AIR Arabel sitting 

By bright chimney side, 
L!^ Knits fast at her knitting, 
She'll soon be a bride. 
But man's a deceiver, 

And woman is caught. 
And lovers oft leave her — 
A word may be naught. 
The world, it rolls over, 

The world, it runs wide. 
But Arabel's lover 

Will claim her as bride. 

Her lover had told her 

When leaving her there, 
That spring would behold her 

A bride, blooming fair ; 
And she has been sitting 

From others apart, 
With net-work a-knitting 

Around her true heart. 
The world, it rolled over. 

The world, it ran wide, 
But brought not her lover 

To Arabel's side. 



98 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

All lonely and grieving, 

The past she recalls, 
While spiders are weaving 

Their webs on the walls. 
All passionless sitting 

Like death in the house ; 
The shadows are knitting 

Their webs o'er her brows. 
The world, it rolls over, 

The world, it runs wide ; 
And never a lover 

Makes Arabel bride. 

O ! man's a deceiver. 

And woman is caught, 
And gold's the world's lever. 

But love can't be bought. 
O ! woman befitting 

Thy holier part. 
Sit fast by thy knitting. 

The web of the heart. 
The world, it rolls over. 

The world, it runs wide ; 
And falsehood's the lover, 

And truth is the bride. 



lEi^^lM 



SUSIE IN THE LANE. 



BETWEEN two rows of hawthorn 



m 

i^k That made an arch above, 
—^^ There ran a wagon roadway 

That hid an early love. 
And gleams a flash of mem'ry 

Though gloomy years of pain, 
That lightens up the hedge-rows, 
And Susie in the lane. 

It never chanced by moonlight 

I met the rustic fair ; 
'Twas in the rosy morning, 

When music filled the air. 
And dew was on the hedges 

Where Robin Redbreast sung. 
And all was merry morning, 

And everything was young. 

Ah! well do I remember 

How chance had made a rule 

To walk between the hedge-rows 
When Susie went to school! 



100 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

To meet her was a glory, 
And oh ! a nameless pain ! 

My boyish heart was fearful 
Of Susie in the lane. 

'Twas just to say " good morning ; ' 

'Twas just to see blue eyes 
Peer out from deep sun-bonnet, 

And twinkle arch surprise. 
They seemed so artless playing 

Their game of hide and seek ; 
I never failed to see them, 

They never failed to speak. 

She lived just o'er the hill-top, 

Where waved the flags of corn : 
Afar I saw her coming. 

And then I knew 'twas morn. 
I always chanced to meet her, 

In sun, or wind, or rain; 
She made the darkest weather 

All sunshine in the lane. 

And I was but a plow-boy. 

And she a little miss, 
I never ventured near her 

Enough to steal a kiss. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. lOI 

I left the plow team standing 

Across the furrowed land, 
To meet her 'neath the hawthorn, 

Yet never touched her hand. 

And Time has plowed some furrows 

Across the plow-boy's brow, 
The wearied team is standing 

Anear the hedge-rows now. 
'Tis growing dusky evening, 

I feel the fluttering pain 
Which stirred my heart this morning 

With Susie in the lane. 




TREE AND VINE. 



\^0i EE the tree all lonely standing, 
°f^^ Sways its sturdy form in air ; 
5[^^ Lofty, lordly, and commanding — 

Yet of fruitful honors bare. 
With the tempest bravely battling ; — 

Still, in calm it doth repine ! 
And with voice of leafy prattling, 

Woos the tender clasping vine. 

See the vine so deftly tending 

Towards the strong arm of the tree. 
Filled with sweet desire of blending 

Strength and grace in harmony. 
Joined: — the world may war around them. 

And the clouds may lower and roar; 
Bonds that turn the storms have bound them, 

Crowned them one forevermore. 

Twain in one they stand together. 

One in form, and two in bloom. 
Giving to the sun-bright weather 

Sparkling beauty, sweet perfume ; 



SONGS AND BALLADS. IO3 



Like a mated man and woman 
In their youngest love caress, 

Tree and vine are more than human 
In their growing tenderness. 

See the tree and vine forever 

Wedded — blossom, branch and root; 
Who could dare the tendrils sever ? 

Who would blast their promised fruit ? 
More than sister is to brother, 

More than mother is to son — 
They are all to one another, 

Always twain, and ever one. 

Picture wecided pair so tender. 

Clinging like the tree and vine; 
Living for autumnal splendor, 

Golden fruit and rosy wine — 
Wine that flows with gentle pressing, 

When the leaves are falling sear ; 
Crowning with the harvest blessing 

All the sunshine of the year. 




OUR ROOF-TREE. 



^^^UR roof-tree protects with its arm 

ifl^rl '^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^°^^ 'round it clinging ; 
]^A And far from the roar of alarm 

Our birds 'mid the branches are singing; 
They drop from the sky's airy blue 
That arches so tenderly o'er us ; 
They build and sing all the day through, 
And join in our happy home-chorus. 

We bar the world out in the night, 
To howl its wild wail of repining ; 

We lock in a world full of light. 
For Love is the sun ever shining. 

We shut out a world full of gloom, 

And shut in a world full of beauty; 
Perfumed with the roses that bloom 

So bright in the pathway of duty. 
Content is our treasure untold. 

Which grows with the taking and giving ; 
Its metal is dearer than gold. 

And pays the rich bounty of living. 

We bar the world out in the night, 
To howl its wild wail of repining ; 



SONGS AND BALLADS. IO5 

We lock in a world full of light, 
For Love is the sun ever shining. 

O pilgrim ! a shrine is at hand ; 

Behold, where our garden is gleaming. 
All green in the desert of sand; 

Come drink of the clear fountain streaming. 
Abide with us all the day long, 

To rest from the turmoil of roaming ; 
And join in our festival song 

When fire-light's the bride of the gloaming. 

We bar the world out in the night. 
To howl its wild wail of repining; 

We lock in a world full of light, 
For Love is the sun ever shining. 

Renown may be bartered and sold. 

And Fame is a blood-chilling story, 
When Honor stands shivering with cold, 

While shining in garments of glory. 
The heart has a realm of its own. 

And Love is its holy defender ; 
With Virtue a queen on the throne, 

What monarch can vie with her splendor ? 

We bar the world out in the night. 
To howl its wild wail of repining; 

We lock in a world full of light. 
For Love is the sun ever shining. 



MUSTER DAY. 



llAhLM Wake, boys ! Rouse to work and 
pleasure — 
This is muster day. 
Colonel Baldwin passed the window, 

Plumed, and mounted fleet — 
Sword and sash and gilded trappings. 
Ringing down the street. 

Every house must wave its colors 

For our martial show ; 
We must feel how strong the arm is. 

Trained to strike a blow. 
Playing with the bare, bright weapon 

Nerves the hand for need. 
Peace wears scars of bloody battle, 

And again may bleed. 

Sunrise ! What a tide of people 

Streaming up and down ! 
Old and young in rippling currents. 

Country flows to town ! 



SONGS AND BALLADS. lO/ 



All the Streets and roads are swarming, 

All the land is gay, 
Rallying round a grand old banner. 

Keeping muster day. 

Men and boys are playing soldier, 

Up in arms at once ; 
Some with harmless, rusty fire-locks ; 

Some with cornstalk guns. 
Underneath a brand new banner, 

As a rainbow fair, 
Fife and drum, and columns tramping, 

Move to Court-house Square. 

Giddy girls and jolly matrons 

Mingle in our joys ; 
How their eyes, with pleasure brimming, 

Glory in their boys. 
Every face, each throbbing bosom, 

Glows with tension strung. 
Youth is ripe and age is youthful — 

All are fair and young. 

See our "old man" in his wagon. 

Bending 'neath his years. 
Honored by the hearty "huzza ! " 

Three right ringing cheers. 



I08 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Relic of the Revolution, 

Wrestling with his quid, 
Blinking, nodding fond approval : — 
" Just the way we did." 

Wagons stud the yards and sideways ; 

Horses, dogs, and cattle 
Seem to feel the merry-making 

Of the mimic battle. 
Servants for the day are masters, 

Even Afric's Tan 
Shines forgetful of its colors' 

Branding social ban. 

Cider-press and still of Bourbon 

Flow in plenteous store. 
All drink quite enough for pleasure — 

Some a trifle more. 
Oratory's plumed spread-eagle 

Makes its rocket flight ; 
Thus the day ; then all the muster 

Dance the livelong night. 

Wake, boys ! There's a glooming shadow 

Hides the morning star, 
Spreads and blacks the whole horizon — 

This is threatening war. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. IO9 

Men, awake ! We're boys no longer, 

Toys we cast away ; 
Comes a contest worthy manhood — 

This is muster day. 

Every man must prove his mettle 

When his country calls ; 
Past the time for playing soldier 

When the old flag falls. 
Earnest faces flash for action, 

Troops march up and down ; 
Pouring from the lanes and highways, 

Soldiers fill the town ! 

Clanging swords and tramping columns 

Sound a war-like din. 
While the struggle of the ranks is, 

Who can first get in. 
Trembling maids and anxious matrons 

At the front again, 
Kiss adieus and sob their good-byes : 

Baldwin leads his men! 

Underneath the bright new banner. 

As the rainbow fair, 
Fife and drum, and columns tramping 

March from Court-house Square. 



no THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Husbands, fathers, sons and brothers 

Marshalled to a man ! 
And, as in the days of muster, 

There is Afric's Tan. 

Comes the muffled battle's thunder 

Rolling up from far. 
While the fitful lightning flashes 

Show where storms the war. 
Fields are plowed with shares of earthquakes. 

Gorged with hasty graves, 
And a pall falls over hearthstones — 

But the old flag waves. 

Wake ! The ruddy day is dawning 

Cloudless now as when 
Rosy flush aroused to muster 

Baldwin and his men. 
Underneath a storm-rent banner. 

Borne through many a fray, 
Tramp the thinned ranks home to glory. 

This is muster day. 

Maids and matrons from their windows 

Bend and count the cost; 
Peace is won, but eyes are straining, 

Looking for their lost. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. Ill 



Still the skyey, radiant standard, 

As a rainbow fair, 
Shines above the war-scarred veterans 

Home, in Court-house Square. 




MISCELLANEOUS. 



OUR MARY. 




WjlEM of purest cosmic mould — 

Crystal birth ; 
^-i Too precious to be bought or sold- 

Priceless worth. 



Lily sprung from lucent soil, 

Fair as light; 
Of earth, that earth can never spoil — 

Spotless white. 



Mary, maid of regal mien — 

Royal line ; 
A lady, born to be a queen — 

Right divine. 

Daughter, dutiful and dear — 

Blooming May; 
In Home's unclouded hemisphere, 

Star of Day. 



MISCELLANEOUS. II3 



Woman — self-contained, complete, 

Grandly staid 
Of sentient being's sweetest sweet, 

Nature-made. 

Young Aurora of the West — 

All a-flame; 
Our Mary, beautiful and blest — 

Saintly name. 

Genius crowned with glory's bright 

Halo beam ; 
Illuming earth with heavenly light — 

Fulfilled dream. 




THE OLD POST ROAD. 



^K|T HOME ! I'm off the railway ! 
)/ V I Returned from distant lands ; 
<=^^i Not far across the woods and fields 
An old-time farm house stands. 
Around the hills and meadows 
There winds a shady way — 
My bare feet pattered down the path 
In memory's yesterday. 

I'll walk in cool of morning, 

With staff and travelling pack, 
And give them all a glad surprise 

To see the wanderer back, 
But things look strangely distant — 

Review them as I may ; 
The landscape's playing hide-and-seek, 

Or I have lost my way. 



No trees arch o'er the by-path, — 
Some blackened stumps remain ; 

A pulseless hush is on the earth — 
Like holding breath, in pain. 



MISCELLANEOUS. II5 



Hello! — no echo answers, 

In pert reply to noise ; — 
I'm not a tramp. I've just come home 

To see the girls and boys. 

No cattle on the hillsides, 

No warbling in the glen ; 
No living thing appears to meet, 

And know me home again. 
The old Post Road — like vagrant — 

Creeps slow up-hill and down, 
And leads no throng of life, between 

The country and the town. 

The blinking wayside tavern 

Is crumbling, stone by stone : 
The wheezy landlord smokes, and yawns, 

And nods, and dreams, alone. 
He rouses when I greet him, 

And makes a distant nod ; 
So, — I'm a stranger pilgrim here — 

An alien to the sod. 

What means this dumb appealing — 

This blank and stony glare ? 
Oh for a thunder-bolt to burst 

The muteness of the air ! 



Il6 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Now comes one sound familiar — 

The falling waters' sigh ; 
I stand upon the mill stream's brink ; 

Its depths are draining dry. 

O memory ! necromancer, 

I feel thy loving spell, 
And I am walking in a dream ! 

What hinders me to tell 
How childhood slept one evening, 

And magic changes came — 
Transforming scenes, concealing things, 

Yet leaving sight the same ? 

If this be Chester Valley — 

Its every nook I know ! 
A haunting something whispers me ; — 

That's forty years ago. 
So long ? And yet I wonder 

Where 'bide the solemn men 
Whose plowshares conquered and defend 

The colony of Penn. 

Their hills' smooth, rounded shoulders 

Were clad in waving corn ; 
Adown the vale the whetting scythe 

Rang in the harvest morn. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



117 



I smell the mowing season — 

Aroma of sweet hay ; 
Tall timothy and clover blooms — 

The farmers' prized bouquet. 

I see them, and I know them, 

With all their quiet, quaint ways, — 
The pauses, and the silences 

That punctuate their days. 
They meet the storm's encounters 

With introspective calm ; 
Their faith and savory deeds distil 

For every wound a balm. 

And here's the old home humble — 

Our family abode ; 
Its eyes are dim with looking long 

Upon the dusty road. 
The porch that sheltered nestlings 

Is broken, worn, and thin ; 
The shrubs and twining vines are gone, 

And sohtude's within. 

Where, where are all the children 
Who watched the travel pass. 

And pressed a round and rosy face 
On every pane of glass ? 



Il8 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Gone ! scattered o'er the wide world 
By tempests roughly blown ; 

The seed, so richly garnered here, 
'Mong rocks and thorns is sown. 

And comes again that whisper — 

Like wind-wail soft and low ; 
The dwellers in this vale have moved 

Since forty years ago ! 
But I am here — a child still ; — 

And looking for lost toys: 
Don't hide from me ; I've just come home 

To see the girls and boys. 

I know the dear old faces. 

And while I gaze they seem 
So friendly near — so faintly far — 

Dim wakings in a dream. 
'Tis memory's fond enchantment ; 

The whisper 's true I know ; 
Yet I am anchored in that deep 

Of forty years ago. 

At young affection's altar, 

Forever decked in green, 
I summon from the depth of years 

Some forms that filled the scene ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. I IQ 



When I, — a child with children — 

Believed the world began 
Just where the "big road " started out, 

And ended where it ran. 

John Connor was the driver 

Of dashing four-in-hand — 
A very lord — the greatest man 

That lived in all the land. 
He brought the Village Record, 

And strewed the news along 
The wayside, chatting, filling in 

The pauses of his song. 

Afar his horn resounded — 

With echo-winding toot, 
And summoned old and young to see 

The wonders in the boot. 
He sat so proud and grandly 

On throne of blue and gold ; — 
It can't be told how big he looked 

To little eight-year-old 

In watching for the stage-coach 
With craving child-like trust. 

To round the cove of yonder hill 
In billowy rolling dust. 



120 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

'Tis past its time of morning : 
The trumpet voice is dumb ; 

At noon-day sounds the dinner horn, 
And still it does not come. 

I hear the ringing concert 

That charmed these hills and dells, 
When teamsters came with caravans — 

Came down with tingling bells. 
The horses pranced to music, 

Nor seemed to feel their load ; 
They hauled fine things from Wonderland 

Along the old Post Road. 

White-hooded market wagons, 

Like nuns in solemn line, 
Marched on, and on, forever on 

As seeking some far shrine. 
Their faces — drooping downward 

Concealed their inward cheer 
With dairy, farm, and garden fruits. 

They circled round the year. 

Came droves of broad-horned cattle — 

Their lowing still I hear ; 
They breathed the sweet of clover-fields 

And begged their evening cheer ; 



MISCELLANEOUS. 121 



And plunging deep in pasture, 
They chased their hunger down ; 

At morning's dawn in shadowy Hne 
They moved to market town. 

The tramp ! I knew his plodding, 

And turning in the lane ; 
He looked so tired and hungry-like - 

And crooked as his cane. 
Low bending 'neath his bundle — 

His pleading piteous " yarn " 
Insured a slice of meat and bread, 

And lodging in the barn. 

I stand here like a wind-harp 

Played on by breezy June ; 
And voices of the shadow-land 

Have pitched a tender tune. 
And memory — weird minstrel 

Sweeps o'er the sobbing strings : 
The strong man is in bondage held, 

While happy childhood sings. 

The ringing chimes of childworld 
Are echo's faint refrain — 

The glimmer of the golden days 
That never come again. 



122 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The pulsing warmth of childheart 

Is cooled with frosty rime ; 
The breath of early roses comes 

With pungent hints of thyme. 

There's shadow in the sunshine — 

A touching tinge of gloom ; 
The valley sits in beauty still 

But bears no human bloom ; 
No children romping gleeful ; 

No lambs within the fold ; 
The flocks and herds are lost, or strayed 

Away from shepherds old. 

The place, there's no mistaking, — 

For there's the Barren Ridge, 
And this is babbling Riddley Creek — 

And arching it the bridge. 
Oh ! for one word of welcome 

To lay that goblin wail, 
There sure must be some relic left 

Of this once teeming vale. 

Hark ! 'tis the old mill humming. 
The same dull, drowsy tune — 

A song of life, yet not in tune 
With bright and breezy June. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 23 



Of all the folks familiar, 

Is there no living one ? 
The aged miller must be left ; 

No, 'tis his aged son ! 

I'll speak to him : " Friend, tell me 
What keeps the stage ? " He said : 

" The stage has not been running since 
The travel has been dead. 

The Post Road's just a wrinkle — 
No passengers, nor mail ; 

'Twas ruined by yon iron horse 
That steams across the vale." 

The stage is stopped ! No wonder 

All things are old and slow ; 
Since nothing wheels along the days 

That drowsing come and go. 
The mill alone is moving 

To make a funeral meal, • 
With scarcely water-power enough 

To turn the droninsr wheel. 



" John Connor — do you know him ? 

He used to drive the stage ? " 
" Aye — he was made Assemblyman 

When railroads 'came the rage. 



124 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

He's dead : his son did badly — 
And went to rack by rail ; 

He drives an engine on yon bridge 
And frightens all the vale. " 

I'm looking for some young folks. 

And playmates whom I know; 
I ran away, but still 'tis not 

So very long ago. 
" Lo ! many years the youngsters 

Have left these parts by rail, — 
Last seen upon yon railroad bridge, 

A rushing o'er the vale." 

No school is kept at Edgmont — 

Behind yon hillock hid ? 
" No school is kept — the teacher quit 

Before the children did ; 
And then the few odd leavings 

Went off to school by rail — 
Went off in smoke o'er yonder bridge 

That sweeps across the vale. " 

Farewell, sweet dream of Eden ! 

Dispelled by hunger-pain ; 
Since all the boys and girls are gone, 

I take the evening train. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



125 



Adieu ! these haunts of childhood, 
They're e'en an old man's tale ; 

A last look from the railway bridge. 
That leaps across the vale. 




DINNER IN THE STREET. 



|(jp;^^ALF the city sleeps ; 
r^^ The other half is waking: — 
'tM) // The one in downy deeps, 

The other — shivering, shaking. 
A winter day is breaking, 

And Frosty Morning creeps 

Slow down the steeple-steeps. 

Then, like a beast of prey, 

Sly, foraging for Day, 
Leaps into lanes and alleys — 
The town's ravines and valleys — 
Where, cramped, and sore, and aching, 

The poor are piled in heaps. 
So, half and half, divided 

By penury and pelf. 
The world is grown blind-sided, 

And does not know itself. 



Where darkness latest lingers 
In drowsy Twilight's lap, 

Grim Labor's bony fingers, 
With savage rap-tap-tap ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 12/ 



First break the morning nap ; 

And out from unknown deeps, 
In night-fall snow and sleet, 
The early plodding feet 

Their devious ways are taking — 

Brave foot-prints new paths making, 

While half the city sleeps. 

Among the thousand others. 
Hard-working men and brothers, 

There's one with burdened back 
Stops timidly before 
A silver-plated door. 

And drops his tiresome pack — 

A saw and wooden rack — 
And rigs with supple skill 
His muscle to a mill 

Beside a cordwood stack; 
And straight applies the power. 
This early work-day hour. 

Along the Avenue 

The morning nap is broken, 

Without a sign or token 
Of daylight creeping through 

The heavy-curtained rooms 

Of Fashion bred in tombs. 



128 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Soon stony fronts are giving 
Some hints and wi<nks of living 

Behind the marble mask ; 
And at the windows, drowsy, 
Are sleepy-heads, and frowsy, 

Who watch the sawyer's task. 
With vim and speed increasing, 
The sawmill goes unceasing, 

The wolf at bay to keep. 
Within doors there is "jawing" 
About the sin of sawing 

When people want to sleep. 
The sin ? His sin is hunger ! 
O pious maxim-monger, 

The moral thou canst draw, 

For Hunger's its own law. 
A sawyer must have meat 
To grease his saw, and eat 
His dinner in the street. 

The Avenue quick rouses 
With unaccustomed cheer. 

And, flitting in the houses. 

Shy, shadowy forms appear — 
Like ghosts of other sphere. 

And little girls and boys 

Look out on snow and sleet. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 29 



And think the sawyer's noise 
Is musically sweet ! 

But never once they think 
He starves by Labor's laws, 

On little meat and drink ; 

While, bowed, he seems to eat, 
With ever-munching jaws, 
His dinner in the street. 

The town is wide awake 
And up, and business moves 
In old accustomed grooves — 

All playing for Life's stake ; 
And merchant, doctor, lawyer. 
Sweep heedless round the sawyer, 

And feel no common cause ; 
They would be long agreeing 

That he's a Human Being — 

The mill that saws and saws. 
The sawyer's world's a tract of 

Perpetual snow and sleet; 
And few regard the fact of 

Starvation in the street. 

All forenoon, girls and boys. 
With clattering hands and feet. 

Applaud the sawyer's noise 
As musically sweet. 



130 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The children are the stairs 

By which we, growing, rise 
By slow steps — unawares — 

To grasp Life's highest prize ; — 
The crown of human good — 
The bond of brotherhood. 
For children come together 

When hearts each other lure, 
Without a question whether 

Their blood is rich or poor. 

It shines — a sunbright day — 
And windows full of faces 
Beam down their pretty graces 

Upon the poor man's way ; 

Yet none appear to know him. 
Or courteous bearing show him. 

Of all who pass to-day. 

The sawyer halts and listens, 
And now his glad face glistens ; 

He knows who come his way — 

Two children, chatting, singing, 
A little girl and boy, 

Tin kettle 'tween them swinging, 
And shining gleams of joy ; 

They hear the saw a-sawing. 

With creaking, hungry gnawing, 
And run with pattering feet ; 



MISCELLANEOUS. I3I 



They know the saw that's sawing 
For dinner in the street. 

He needs nor watch, nor bell, 

Nor any tongue of sound. 
His dinner hour to tell; 
He knows the signal well — 

His shadow on the ground, 
So short and trim and neat. 
Close lying at his feet — 

That noon has come around. 
His dial's always right. 
And so's his appetite. 
His youngsters caper round him, 

And for their kisses climb — 
So glad that they have found him 

Just in the nick of time. 
And on the curbstone prattling. 
Amid the city's rattling. 

On saw-dust cushioned seat 

They sit them down to eat — 
A poor man's family party — 

Three in a row complete ; 
They take with hunger hearty 

Their dinner in the street: — 
A loaf of bread, no butter. 
Ice water from the gutter, 

A very little meat ; 



132 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The saw needs half the latter 
To still its clamorous clatter ; — 

The saw has teeth to eat 
Its share — and that the fatter — 

Of dinner in the street. 

See older faces peering 

Through parlor windows high, 

Like angels from the sky — 
Some wrong ,to mortals fearing, 

And standing helpful by. 
See little children leading — 

As children only can — 
Their elders, sweetly pleading : 
" O ! come and see a man; " 
And man he is — presiding, 

In royal office crowned. 
And feeds his heart, dividing 

The scanty fare around ; 
And who could look, deriding 

That dinner on the ground ! 

The street door opens swinging, 

With hospitable air ; 
And children's feet bound, ringing 

Upon the marble stair ; 
Wilh wreaths and ribbons gay 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 33 



Decked up like Holiday, 
The little people cluster, 
With pretty fuss and fluster, 

And then march down in line 
With all the house can muster 

Of meat, and bread, and wine. 

Thus children come together, 
On Human ground secure ; 

Nor care nor question whether 
Their blood is rich or poor. 

A lovely sight to see — 

Among the banks of snow, 
In young Humanity 

The flowers of Friendship grow. 
And at the table lowly. 

It seems the angels wait. 
To teach the lesson — holy — 

Of equal mortal state. 
Fruits, viands, wines and meats — 

Like fairy gifts in fable ; — 
The rags upon the seats — 

Silks serving at the table. 

Where anger flashed at sawing, 
The marble seems to melt ; 

The snow and sleet are thawing 
With warming they have felt. 



134 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



The sawyer's world is brightened; 

His wintry prospect clears ; 
The children's hearts are lightened 

With flow of happy tears. 
The prattle of affection — 

How musically sweet ! 
And sweet the recollection 

O' that dinner in the street. 




CORONATION. 



YORKTOWN CENTENNIAL ODE. 



^N Independence Day, 
rlU\r| When the old world was going its old way — 
{A Unmindful of the groans 

That rose around the footstools of its thrones, 
Where Tyranny held iron-sceptered sway, 
A strange voice came 
From tongue of flame ; 
The sky bent low to hear the heroic sound. 
And, as the drowsy waking globe rolled round, 
A cluster of bright stars, 
Swept from the shield of Mars, 
Blazed down upon divinely consecrated ground. 

Then Freedom's fire arose; 
A new light flashed and flamed in all men's eyes ; 
A starry banner floated in the skies. 

Affrighting mankind's foes 
In castle walls, and palaces afar ; 

While o'er a valiant band — 

First Home-guard of the land — 
Shone Hope's Lone Star. 



136 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Rang Independence bell — 
Reverberate amid the trumpet's blare ; 
And human shackles fell, 
And Tyrants heard their knell 
Tolled out upon the free and all-encircling air. 

At Freedom's second birth 
The wise men of the West went forth to greet 
The dawning promise of the laboring Earth 

And her fruition sweet. 

. How many fathers looked their joy, 
How many mothers smiled ! 
But Kingcraft plotted to destroy 
The young prophetic child. 

Came war's alarms 

And rush to arms, 
For Heirship's vested Royal Right — 

Man's heritage 

For many an age 
Withheld by armed usurping might. 

Where Virtue guided, Wisdom led. 

The birthright to defend ; 
For every native foe that fled, 
There came a foreign friend ; 
Until the allied armies loving stood 
In common, patriotic Fatherhood. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 37 



Hark ! The battle's sullen boom, 

And storm of iron crashing; 
And see ! War's lurid gloom, 

And rain of life-blood dashing. 

Cause — the noblest ever tried 

By highest court or nation ; 
Mortals sprang up — Deified, 

To recreate Creation. 

O Titans, drive your blows 
Where thickest swarm Man's foes ; 
A plastic world's the stake 
To mould, or mar, or make. 
In the ensanguined throes 
Of formative earthquake. 

Shock followed shock, by land and sea, 
And every blow struck mightily, 
To found a country of the Free — 
To build a home for the Refugee. 

In every noble, grand emprise 
Some men must fall that more may rise ; 
And earth is lifted toward the skies 
The moment that a martyr dies. 

Through all the long, long night 
The storm cloud lowered upon the shuddering land ; 
And through the fluctuations of the fight 



138 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

Fought on that gallant band — 
Sealing with blood 
Where'er they stood, 
The Freeman's bond of Brotherhood ; 
Carving upon the rugged Earth's round face 
The future fortunes of the Human Race ; 
Bearing Right's Ark 
Safe through the dark 
And dismal vale of Death : 
They set it in the Morning's Dawn, 

And drew the first free breath 
A continent had ever drawn. 

On Yorktown's Golden Day 
Man's youngest born began life her own way — 

Unfettered, fair and free, 
And teeming with the fruitfulness to be. 

A goddess sprung from human strain, 
Like Pallas from the Thunderer's brain — 
Full armed, and garlanded with green — 
A mighty mother — maiden queen; 
The People's type — bred to command — 
Subject, and Sovereign of the Land. 

Goddess of our country born. 

Symbol of a Nation's rise. 
Glowing in our Freedom's morn — 

Sweet Aurora of our skies. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 39 



Goddess, at whose cradle stood 
Heroes — yet without a name, 

Till they guarded Thee with blood. 
Till they reared Thee into fame. 

This is Coronation Day 

Which we dedicate to Thee ; 
Wear the crown, and hold the way 

Leading still to Liberty. 

And Yorktown led the van that day supreme — 
Of moment deep to every coming age ; 

All olden story faded in the beam 

That lighted up our History's living page. 

The heirs of Royalty are Freedom's men. 
And every man is sovereign in his right; 

The gods and kings yield up their sway, and then 
The world swings shining from the realms of Night. 

A life begun 
In song and sun : 
Behold the wonders it has done ! 

A hemisphere 
Of sky — all clear; 
And not a foe found lurking near. 

A pledge of Peace 
Upon the breeze 
Came singing o'er Atlantic seas. 



140 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The little band 
That freed the strand 
Made their own Deed for all the land. 

An hundred years have flown 
Behind the peaceful coronation of our Queen ; 

And she is younger grown, 
In all the flower and fruiting time between. 

Both War and Peace 

Have brought increase 
Beneath the happy sunshine of her eyes. 

And now behold I 

The goddess mould 
Of her fair figure wrapped around with skies. 

A nation great, 

We dedicate 
Her century shaft with love and state. 

Her kinsmen all, 

Kelt, Goth and Gaul — 
All helped to rear this column tall. 

With the whole world at peace, and war-scars healed, 
Columbia stands and views her golden field ; 
From sea to sea, through every fruitful zone. 
The sky is smiling, and the Earth's her own ; 
When, sometimes, for a chieftain slain she grieves, 
Our Mother Briton sends her cypress leaves. 



MISCELLANEOUS. I4I 



And Yorktown's silent guns 
Spoke louder than their thunder roar, 

And gave to mankind all at once 
Glad tidings from our shore : 

One-half the World is free : 
The swift prophetic message Eastward ran, 

Enlarging in all Time to be 
The God-like Possibilities of Man. 

The hands of South and North 
Clasped on the " Glorious Fourth," 

And from the East went up the battle-cry; . 
But since our arms were blest, 
The wide and wondrous West 

Has borne the fullest fruitage of July. 

One bright October day 
A New-World Nation started on its way 

The Star of Empire glowed 
On wilds and summits of its Western road ; 
A home-made race of giants grandly strode : 

O'er peaks and plains, 

Throbbed fire-fed veins — 
A continent to win from savagery. 
Till from the heights all saw the circling sea. 

Those valiant sons of Mars, 

Forever crowned with stars. 
So shaped the upward course of Human Destiny. 



VAGGED. 



SrSAGGED, an ugly word to utter, bearing in 
(W§j M' its sound a sting, 

<^^^' Bitter as the breath can temper one to stab 
a hateful thing. 
He is vagged, your Honor tells me — sent to wear a 

ball and chain ? 
Just so! strong drink drove him crazy, — gave him 
crotchets in his brain. 

God of Heaven ! Is he among the evil-doers 
smutched with crime ? 

Found him in the vagrant quarter, where the city 
reeks with slime. 

Begging, came he here for shelter many nights in 
snow and sleet, 

'Till his name got on the docket — drunk and sleep- 
ing on the street. 



Aye ! I know — the same old story; caught in Fort- 
une's wind and rain ; 

But this man was great among men, and bred giants 
in his brain — 



MISCELLANEOUS. I43 



Understood the Age's movement ; mingled with its 

action grand, 
While your court stood back in terror, looking on 

with palsied hand. 

Bore a general's name with honor underneath dis- 
astrous star. 

Was a hero among heroes — drove the tide and 
storm of war. 

Like a guardian angel sleeping on a lucent couch 
of air — 

See the flag that floats above you ; well, this vagrant 
raised it there. 

Had no friend in his disaster courage to come forth 

and stand 
By his side when he was falling — take him friendly 

by the hand ? 
Stronger claims than wife or mother are the badges 

that he wore 
On the deep heart of his country shrined within his 

bosom's core. 

Other marks he had where valor set its honorable 

seal; 
And did they not plead to save him ? Wounds are 

hollow when they heal ! 



144 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Scars are beggars of the body, falling in their mute 

appeal ; 
And the world forgets its builders, and men do not, 

can not feel ! 

Sympathy has frozen fingers fumbling round its 
purse's dole ; 

Tears are tricks to be ashamed of — no more dew- 
drops of the soul. 

No purse had for him a pittance when his fortunes 
met such shock ; 

No eye had a pitying tear-drop when he graced the 
prisoner's dock. 

No one here with recognition kindly met him when 

he came ; 
No one here could help misfortune hide from shame 

an honored name. 
Here it stands upon the record, every idle eye to 

meet; 
Vagged — fined as usual — work-house; drunk and 

sleeping on the street ! 

Tried to shield him, but he would not — wrote his 

own name full, you see ; 
Said he saw no valid reason why a general's should 

not be 



MISCELLANEOUS. « I45 



Written full, with proper title, so the rank was e'en 

set down. 
All is fair and square and lawful — drunken king is 

but a clown. 

Judge, I tell you 'tis outrageous ! such vile penalties 

and pains ! 
Your Court Terrible is lawful, but it can not feel for 

brains. 
Brains? How now? In sober earnest? or in vein 

of jesting sport? 
Either way it frets my honor, and becomes contempt 

of court! 

But you wrong the court, for really he was homeless, 

old, and I — 
Sent him tottering to the work-house, as a healthy 

place to die. 
Just so; now he's free and happy — no more pangs 

of wounded pride ; 
Yet for Justice sake, historians, make no record 

where he died. 

Tell it not, and yet to Justice e'en the court of Death 
must yield ; 

And some poet may hereafter sing of graves in Pot- 
ter's Field. 



146 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



Justice is the law eternal — wrong and ruth are only- 
lent; 

O'er the grave of our dead soldier let us build fit 
monument. 




NERO. 



FROM THE GERMAN OF UDO BRACHVOGEL. 




^, RING hither lights ! Laugh down the dark- 



ness; 
Let waxen beams unnumbered shine; 
To Hades every shade of sadness ; 
Come music's swell and foaming wine. 
Let waves of flame sport hke the ocean, 

And night's dark brow be crowned with light ; 
Then breathe all round the breath of roses — 
My heart is full of its own night. 



"The harp ! my boy with golden tresses, 

For light and music's tone I pine ; 
Thy glance is day, thy song is gladness, 

Thou knowest a great reward is thine. 
Sing Troy, with all its turrets blazing, 

Which laughed to scorn the sun-god's might. 
And conjure far this gathering blackness — 

My heart is steeped in its own night." 



148 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Thus Csesar spake, and then, reclining, 

He caught and clasped his favorite's knee. 
The songs are brought from golden casket 

Which opens with a golden key. 
The minstrel calls to memory, smiling. 

The stately march of Virgil's song ; 
His prelude, like the dreamy murmur 

Of rippling waters, plays along. 

But soon it swells, as billows foaming 

Plunge down some cliff's majestic form ; 
The dashing floods and winds commingle, 

And words and music wed in storm. 
Now lost to ear is rhythmic cadence, 

Fate blows a brazen blast of dread ; 
And 'mid the lance's gleam and clashing, 

Comes thundering on the war-god's tread. 

The children scream, and wail the women ; 

Unchecked the fiends and fates conspire. 
And rush and glare o'er dead and dying ; 

The torch leaps forth, and Troy's on fire. 
Neath blood-red surges falls the city 

The gods believed eternal ; dread 
Seized suddenly the faltering minstrel, 

Then choked his voice and sunk his head. 

His lips were locked with pangs of anguish. 
Of mighty song the outward trace ; 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



I4P 



But soon arose a ruddy north-light, 
And flushed his chiselled Grecian face. 

"In vain!" the minstrel sighed; "no further 
My wings can bear this daring flight ; 

To sing the poet's inspiration 

Must I have burning Troy in sight." 

With flaming brow the monarch, turning. 

Sprang up and cried : " So let it be ! 
Ascend we to the golden terrace ; 

Thy madness, boy, is heaven's decree. 
And if 'tis thine, 'tis mine in spirit. 

Or have the gods taught thee my dream ? 
Howe'er it be, I own a madness 

The gods themselves will worthy deem. 

" Here blaze the torches ; here are goblets. 

And here the lyre with golden ring ; 
A second time shall fire storm Ilium ; 

A second song shall Virgil sing. 
Fill up for me the goblet brimming 

With famed Falerno's fiery foam ; 
I quaff a deep, imperial bumper, 

Here's health to thee, my Troy in Rome. 

" My hands shall scatter roses o'er thee ; 

To Phaeton's chariot I aspire ; 
The torch ! Bring hither many flambeaus — 

Bring flaming, hungering brands of fire." 



150 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

And brand on brand flies hissing downward 
On sleeping Rome's deep-pulsing breast; 

The monarch's limbs with pleasure tremble, 
For mad delight has made him blest. 

A purple blush night's brow suffuses, 

And smoke and vapor reddening rise ; 
The fire-fiends dance in circles upward. 

And fiery tongues lick o'er the skies. 
The children scream, and wail the women ; 

Unchecked the fiends and fates conspire, 
And rush and glare o'er dead and dying — 

It spreads ! and Rome is wrapped in fire. 

Thus falls in dust and ashes storming 

Rome's ancient splendor, matchless might ; 
With clouded face the moon flies trembling, 

As if to shun the hideous sight. 
To greet the radiant blush of morning, 

Deceived, the lark-choirs singing rise ; 
Like brides, a troop of gay Auroras 

O'er Rome in ruins tread the skies. 

And roll the waters of the Tiber 

Like molten suns through night's domains. 
The monarch gave one look of rapture ; 

A fever shoots through all his veins. 
The royal barge came at his bidding, 

With roses lined on every side ; 



MISCELLANEOUS. I 5 I 



He stepped on board in royal purple, 
And glided o'er the crimson tide. 

So speeds the night, while ever gentler 

The boat is rocked by wave and wind ; 
Then spake the tyrant — pleasure-glutted 

" My eyes are sated ; now be blind ! " 
At flush of dawn the pilots homeward 

Slow steer the prow, and gain the land. 
A low voice breathes among the roses : 

" Now Virgil's song I understand. 

" I thank thee, boy, of tresses golden ; 

Take thou this diadem from me — 
The symbol of imperial station, 

Thus from my brow I yield to thee. 
Nay — take it softly; I implore thee 

Dispel not soon this vision bright. 
Lest when it fails, my heart, now blissful, 

Be plunged again in its old night." 




DISENTHRALLED. 



3f WANDER forth on the dank cold ground 
By the shore of a frozen river ; 
The earth and waters are winter-bound, 
I feel their rough breath and shiver 
As I draw my cloak of fur around, 
And look on the lifeless river. 

My soul is bound as the fettered stream, 
And more than the sky 'tis dreary ; 

A pall is over my life's young dream. 
And my fancy's wings are weary. 

Where are the visions which used to teem 
When the voice of hope was cheery ? 

I sit me down on the cushioned ground 

Beside a shimmering river ; 
Spring comes with a merry and lightsome bound, 

And the leaves and grasses quiver. 
And daisies and buttercups flutter around 

On the marge of the rippling river. 

The rustling hosts with banners of green, 

Sly over the hills are glancing ; 
While marching down the valleys are seen 

The timid pickets advancing 
In armor bright with velvety sheen 

On breezy coursers prancing. 



MISCELLANEOUS. I $3 



They gallop to bolted doors and knock : 
Awake ! Awake from your dreaming ! 

They shout to the weird wind-beaten stalk 
With olden memories teeming : 

The spirit within revives with the shock, 
And opens its windows gleaming. 

And all abroad over valley and hill, 
With touch and tone awaking 

From icy grasp and passionless chill 
And tattered garments flaking — 

The elfin army bounds with a thrill — 
Its winter bondage breaking. 

The troopers surround my lone retreat, 
And my prisoned soul deliver ; 

They waltz with zephyrs about my feet 
With graceful curve and quiver : 

With garlands they twine my grassy seat, 
Beside the shimmering river. 

The air is choked by the harmonies 
That pour with the sunshine's gushing ; 

And gala flags are hung in the trees 
With blood of the spring-time flushing) 

And singing and humming, birds and bees 
The frolicsome winds are hushing. 



154 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The fairies knock at my spirit's door 
Locked close with pain and sadness ; 

I rise renewed on the beautiful shore, 
Redeemed from thrall of madness. 

The demons of darkness follow no more 
My soul which walks in gladness. 

I sit me down by the river of thought, 

In calm and sweet devotion ; 
With life and vigor the spring has wrought 

In the pulse of dead emotion : 
By the dance of the rippling waves I'm taught 

The boundless roll of the ocean. 




-m ^J^irtSSL ^^ftWii >> 



THE MYSTIC. 



MYSTIC being I call to mind, 
// V Who wanders o'er earth alone ; 

£!t/l\ Amongst the millions of human kind 
He mingles and works — unknown. 
Who is the stranger ? What is his name ? 

His rank, his mission, his sphere ? 
The passing wonder is whence he came, 
And what is he doing here ? 

He comes where masses of people meet. 

In every clime and land ; 
None hear the tread of his slippered feet, 

Yet many have grasped his hand. 
I see him now ! He is smiling — there — 

With features of genial mould ; 
He's young, and more than a mortal fair, 

Yet flourished in days of old. 

Start not — his manners are human — see, 
He breathes in a healthful calm ; 

His manhood is gentle, his spirit free. 
His heart is pure as the lamb. 



156 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

How strange his being — so old, yet young ! 

Was ever such mortal before ? 
He hves — the type of lineage, sprung 

From mystical sages of yore. 

He burst from a dim Olympian height 

When first the races began ; 
He bears the Orient's banner of light 

Adown the ages of man. 
'Mid Spring's early blooms — before the flood. 

When nature was blithe and young, 
He tilled the green earth where Babel stood, 

And spoke the primeval tongue. 

In Shinar he saw the human tide, 

Which swelled with a tumult grand, 
In billowy cohorts surging wide — 

Dash on to the Promised Land. 
Around him peoples lay wrecked and tossed, 

•The sport of the Storm-King's breath ; 
He saved some fragments, where all seemed lost 

And conquered the phantom Death ! 

He saw the Old World wonders gleam, 
As they rose in shadowy light — 

Like golden domes that shine in a dream. 
On the dark back-ground of night. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 15/ 



Another morn -•- the vision had fled ; 

He walked amid ruins alone ; 
And nothing toid of the vanished dead 

Save histories carved in stone. 

He knew their story, and wandered on — 

One lingering look he cast ; 
Then rose in the sphere of a brighter dawn, 

And shed the light of the past. 
The springs of ages renewed his youth 

With blossoms and change sublime ; 
He found the gold of eternal truth. 

And coined the ingots for Time. 

He drank at the Chaldean fount of thought, 

Ere yet it was stained with guile; 
And, deep in mysterious knowledge, taught 

The dusky priests of the Nile. 
By sea and by land, — from coast to coast 

Did the wondrous Chaldean roam ; 
Where Israel's Kings led the Judean host 

He built for the Tribes a home. 

He passed the dread ordeal of strife, 
And glows — a symbol of Truth; 

He quaffed the soul's elixir of Life, 
And blooms in immortal youth. 



158 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

A mystic ! — come from the ancient days 
With wisdom, and craft, and lore ; 

Whose daily walks are the humble ways 
Where virtue ennobles the poor. 

He tempers the heat of passions strong 

By language of tender tone ; 
His voice has a deeper charm than song. 

And every tongue is his own. 
He meets the scourge of the desert, grim, 

And reeking with spoils and gore ; 
He speaks — the barbarian yields to him, 

And revels in blood no more. 

I see him go on an errand of love 

For a brother oppressed with care ; 
In secret he kneels to the Throne above 

For a brother's soul, in prayer. 
He locks in his bosom the sacred breath 

Of confidence held most dear; 
The erring he guides from the vale of death. 

And whispers a word of cheer. 

The guard of Beauty, he stands by her side, 
Between her weakness and harm. 

And mother, sister, daughter, or bride, 
Is safe at his good right arm. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 59 



He draws a magic circle around 

Th' ideal that charms his mind ; 
None dare intrude on the sacred ground 

Where love and virtue are shrined. 

Where daylight glooms and the air is defiled, 

And worth is by penury tried, 
A widow gasps — dying — "My child ! my child!' 

The stranger stands at her side. 
His magic revives her fading sight 

With joy's most exquisite thrill ; 
The soul of the m.other is crowned with light, 

The child has a guardian still. 

From drooping age's tottering form 

He lifts a cumbersome load; 
He shields the shelterless head from storm, 

And smooths life's rugged road. 
With Death he enters his presence grand 

To brighten the closing scene ; 
And in the grave with fraternal hand 

He plants the evergreen. 

I see him gleam through the battle's smoke 

In glorious prowess revealed ; 
He turns the edge of the hostile stroke. 

And foes part friends on the field. 



i6o 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



The mystic plies his wonderful art ; — 

His temples adorn all lands ; 
In secret he builds, and moulds the heart 

For " the house not made with hands." 

And when the wrongs of humanity plead 

For a hero to lead the van, 
The power is rife in the loins of need, 

And the Times bring forth the Tnan. 
The heart of mankind conceived : — he came, 

The child of Faith and Desire ; 
His life is the spirit of earthly flame — 

Baptized with Heavenly fire. 

Whence comes the magical charm he bears ? 

His purpose is great and good ! 
His mother inspired the smile he wears, 

And named him — Brotherhood ! 
He honors the parent that gave him birth 

With love that never will cease, 
And hence his days are long on the earth ; — 

His mission is crowned with peace. 



An artisan ; yet he wears no sign 
That might his calling declare ; 

Within and not on his bosom shine 
The trowel, compass and square. 



MISCELLANEOUS. l6l 



A mystic ? Yes, if power for good 
Be proof of the mystic's art ! 

A stranger? Ah! no, for Brotherhood 
Reigns over the realm of Heart. 




RAKING HAY. 



\w^r?/WAS in the days of mowing 
%ir IM With honest arm and scythe ; 
''' jLLf When neighbors helped in neighbors' fields, 
And harvest hands were blythe. 
And I was then a stripling — 

They called me half a hand — 
Among the stalwart, sunbrowned men 
Who tilled the_^clover-land. 

The lines of mowers mowing 

With swinging pace along ; 
The cadence of the rhythmic strokes 

Set heart a-beating song. 
Sweet music of the whetstones. 

Like morning bells in chime. 
Tuned mellow, through some harsher sounds — 

My heart's still beating time. 

Right onward marched the mowers 

Knee deep in flowering grass ; 
They ranged according to their skill 

Like school-boys in a class. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 163 



And strength was brought to trial. 
And strove with wrestler's wroth — 

Who could the smoothest stubble cut. 
And who the widest swath ? 

How proudly strove the leader — 

The swiftest and the best ! 
He held his place a cut or two 

Ahead of all the rest ; 
Allowed no one to lead him 

The breadth of brawny hand : — 
A master of the mowing-craft, 

He ruled the clover-land. 

The morning beams came glancing 

The fluttering tree-tops thro', 
Like golden bills of birds that bent 

To sip the sparkling dew. 
And then in mild mid-morning, 

Began the harvest day, 
And all hands — girls and boys and men- 

Were merry making hay. 

Then came a choice of partners 

Who could the best agree. 
And lots were drawn by glances quick — 

Kate always fell to me ! 



164 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Now turn thy glass, O mem'ry, 

Upon that harvest-day, 
Which poured its sunshine over me 

And Katie making hay. 

The morning call of luncheon 

To grassy table laid, 
Assembled all the haymakers 

Beneath a lone tree's shade ; 
A bliss of rest and breathing 

By leafy fingers fanned — 
And then another haying-heat 

Raced o'er the clover land. 

We spread the swaths commingling 

In beds of rustling brown, 
And rich field-odors floated up 

On wings of feathery down. 
Then rolled the ridgy windrows — 

The triumphs of the day : 
I dreamed o'er triumphs of a life 

With Katie raking hay. 

She looked all over bonnet — 
Of gingham, blue and white — 

Her face's roses in the shade 

Glanced out their own sweet light. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 65 



Her rake would get entangled 
Sometimes, by locking mine, 

And when she said : " Provoking thing ! " 
E'en quarreling was divine ! 

A spring of bubbling waters 

Welled up in woodside cool, 
And ever at the field's end hedge 

Both thirsted for the pool. 
She drank from out a goblet 

I made her of my hands, 
And, kneeling at her feet, I quaffed 

From cup of golden sands. 

The last load in the twilight 

Dragged slowly towards the stack — 
Just like a great brown burly beast 

With children on its back ; 
And flecky clouds hung over, 

Of softest creamy hue. 
Like handfuls plucked from cotton bales 

And dashed against the blue. 

I'm dreaming now of haytime. 
The fields and skies are bright ; 

I see among the harvesters 

A bonnet — blue and white — 



1 66 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

And Katie's face is in it, 
A shade, it may be, tanned ; 

But 'tis the fairest face of all 
That grace the clover land. 

The clover crop was gathered 

In harvests long ago ; 
Another partner Katie chose 

For life's uphill windrow. 
But oh, of all the sunshine 

That ever blessed a day — 
The crown still shimmers over me 

And Katie raking hay. 




THE OLD CLERK. 



1 



ft 



'fHK old clerk climbed on his counting- 
'" room stool, 



^' 



Prompt as the early sun ; 

His day-book and ledger, rubber and rule 
Were brought forth one by one. 

He seemed to shrink 

From the spots of ink 
That frowned on him there alone ; 

And sometimes grimly smiled to think 
That his hands were not his own. 



Through shadows thick falling around him, 
No light can dim vision descry ; 

In the fetters by which fate has bound him 
There's nothing for him but to die. 



The old clerk sat on his high-top stool 

All bowed with toil and woe ; 
And dreamed of a boy who romped at school 

A many a year ago. 



l68 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

His heart beat light, 

No shade of bhght 
Had crossed his sunny face ; 

His being was all golden bright — 
A type of youthful grace. 

No stains were on his delicate hands ; 

His face beamed health and joy ; 
Time turned his glass ! — the glowing sands 

Ran golden towards the boy. 
Lost voices swelled with silver ring, 

His clouded sense grew clear, 
Bleak Winter melted into Spring — 

The springtime of the year. 
Life's morning dawned with ruddy flame, 

Arrayed in vernal sheen 
The frost of seventy years became 
The dew of seventeen. 

The dream soon passed — 
Dreams never last ; 
That youth is worn and old ; 
A cheerless life 
Of toil and strife 
Hath left him grim and cold. 
The ghosts of all his drudging years 

Before his vision rise ; 
The shrouded form of Hope appears, 
And mocks his sunken eyes. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 69 



This was no dream ; he raised his face 

O'er fancy's flattering mask ; 
He then resumed his lowly place, 

And plied his daily task. 

On the verge of the world he lingers, 
And croons a moaning refrain. 

While drumming with trembling fingers 
To the plaintively dolorous strain. 

Look at his dreary prison cell — 

Excluding air and light ; 
The prisoned eye alone can tell 

If it be day or night. 
Spiders of olden-time had spread 

Their gossamer net-work there ; 
But even they, aflrighted, fled 

From the dank, unwholesome air. 
The shrinking tracks of the old clerk's life 

All center in this dark room ; 
His little ones and his patient wife 

Were hidden in deeper gloom. 
They cowered in the cold, deep city, 

In rags, and squalor, and dread — ■ 
Too proud for the guerdon of pity, 

While starving for daily bread. 
To his hapless fortune they clung 

With the feverish gripe of despair ; 



I/O 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



When they perished, each death-knell rung 

"Amen " to a wailing prayer. 
These ties of a home and the hearth 

Were sundered, one by one ; 
They fell to the pitying earth. 

And left him alone — alone ! 
Like a tree in a wide desert plain — 

A figure of mute despair, 
That never can blossom again, 

All branchless, leafless and bare. 
You would say he never was young, 

But always sombre and cold : 
From Winter and Ruin sprung — 

A child born hoary and old. 

Not a flower of his springtime lingers ; 

He sits at his desk resigned, 
With the rust of ink on his fingers — 

The mould of age in his mind. 



His ledgers are ranged on a shelf. 

In a musty, regular row. 
As so many parts of himself 

Abandoned under the snow. 
A mournful history trace 

On every faded page ; 
From the flourish of youthful grace. 

To signs of trembling age. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 17I 



Not a flower of his springtime lingers; 

He sits at his desk resigned. 
With the rust of ink on his fingers — 

The mould of age in his mind. 

The old clerk climbed down his ladder-like stool ; 

His long day's work was done, — 
Ledger and pen, rubber and rule 

Were laid by, one by one. 
He locked once more 
The office door, 

And blessed the setting sun 
He'd blessed it many a time before, 

His work day being done. 
The daylight flashed o'er dale and hill, 

And gilt the city's spires : — 
One form was cold, one heart was still, 

Unwarmed by morning's fires. 
The stool whereon the clerk grew gray 

Stood vacant, grim, and lone ; 
His spirit spurned the urn of clay, 

His last day's work was done. 

No green for his memory lingers ; 

He lived and died resigned, 
With the rust of ink on his fingers — 

The mould of age in his mind. 



SHOSHONE. 



ft 



MHIS song is of the West. 
" The orient beam 

That gilds the dewy gateway of the morn 



Discovers only fierce barbarian hordes 
Crouching amid decay : — dark sentinels 
Who stand the night-watch of the ancient world. 
The living torrent left some stagnant pools 
Around the fountain, while the swelling tide 
Swept on resistless — following the day. 
Thus civilization leads her noisy train 
Westward, and ploughs a fertile belt of earth, 
For sustenance ; and builds up mountain high 
Her monuments, to crumble in their turn. 
And still beyond are wide, untrodden fields, 
Unfathomed solitudes, and desert wilds. 
And more barbarians ; dusky forest kings 
Of narrowing realms ; and villages that flit 
Before the plough, the anvil, and the loom. 
They leave the earth unbroken by their tread. 
And nature's face, untarnished by their touch, 
And heaven's clear air untainted by their breath 
These untamed wanderers. God's work remains 
As moulded by the great creative Hand — 
Of all His world the purest in the West. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1/3 



Now let us venture past the scattered van 

Of Empire's army ; past the pioneer 

Who guards the border ; past old hunting grounds 

Deserted by both hunter and his game ; 

Beyond the hills that gird the Mormon valley; 

To the far, trackless wilds of Idaho, 

Where the sun shines the brightest on our land. 

And burnishes the earth with sands of gold. 

Pause, and view Nature in her morning robes — 

As fresh and fair as when she put them on 

To welcome life around these mountain shrines 

Here, a sweet river wanders to the West — 

Its current dimpled, deep and crystal clear, 

Glides calmly, smoothly in its dreamless rest 

Wrapped in the glossy mantle of the sky. 

Behold a change ! — as when an avalanche 

Leaps down the highest Alps, and drowns the 

vale. 
The sleeping waters startled from their bed 
Rush o'er a chasm's brink with wail and crash , 
What time the trumpet Canon's echoing horn 
The deafening blast prolongs. Listening afar, 
Old Druid mountains nod their snowy heads 
With grave applause. Near, eagles nurse their 

young 
Rocked by the surges, — dripping with the spray. 



174 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

From nature's loom descends the silver sheet 

Endless, inwove with every sunlight tint 

And fringed with feathery foam. The maddened 

tide, 
Full fifty fathoms, thunders down th' abyss, 
Then steepy shores the angry waters guide — 
A rapid river dashing towards the sea. 

We call the marvellous cataract Shoshone — 
Wild as its savage name. The jewelled queen 
Of torrents, throned in misty solitude. 
Reigns not alone in grandeur. Kindred springs 
Mould kindred features in the veins of earth. 
Thrice do the foaming waters surge and plunge : 
They hang 'mid folds of shadowy clouds on high ; 
Then dash in clouds of diamond mist below, 
And rainbows arch them in the middle sky. 

The cloistered genius of the wilderness 

Holds converse with the spirit of the flood — 

Endowed with life, and language eloquent. 

I, too, would speak with thee, whose playful hand 

Pours streaming silver down the mountain side, 

From earth's exhaustless urn ; whose deep voice 

rang 
For prayer in Nature's high cathedral dome, 
To glorify the young creation's birth. 



MISCELLANEOUS. I75 



Who art thou, Shoshone ? Dread solitudes 
Appalled thine infancy and nurse thy age. 
The roving spirit of an Indian King 
Disturbed thy bosom and impelled thy steps 
Towards shining peaks that lured thee from afar 
To that fell plunge ; and thy untrammelled youth 
With pride and daring sought the sunset clime. 
And fields of glory in the unlocked wilds 
Reveal thy mystery ! Come forth and speak 
Of periods that have flown like shadows o'er thee. 
One word would fall a plummet in the void 
Of circling cycles, and unpeopled realms. 
All, all is silent, save the ceaseless wail 
Of headlong torrents on the desert air. 
That wail was silence through long ages past. 
Where no ear is, the hollow waves of sound 
Float meaningless, on seas of nothingness. 
So Time is not, but in recorded hours 
Struck from the vacuum of Eternity. 

Since men have sought the desert for its sands 
Thy regal pomp has fallen. Thy retinue 
Affrighted fled : Thou'rt sitting in the sun. 
Thy white beard streaming, and thy shaggy locks 
All misty with the gray of centuries — 
Abandoned monarch on a liquid throne. 
The crown of sunbeams wreathed upon thy brow 
Conceals the furrowed scars of rifting time. 



176 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Thine eyes with starry lustre glow. Thy breast 

Heaves with the joy of immortality. 

Thy mantle of ethereal fabric glows, 

With change eternal, studded o'er with gems. 

And like a live cloud rolls around thy form 

In skyey convolutions : such thy state — 

And such thy home impaled by frosty peaks. 

Thy flood, Shoshone, typifies a race 

Peaceful and tranquil, till its fall and flight — 

Yet still unconquered — ever roving free, 

And never chained to toil. The white man's face 

Warns thee of bridges, cities, throngs of men 

To ravage thy domain. Thine age untamed — 

Transfixed upon that dire Promethean rock — 

Is not exempt from chains. Thy pride may bend 

To millions that will swarm to mock thy power, — 

His fate who carried Gaza's gates of old. 




ZELDA. 



?if^\ER lone heart mused, her sad face smiled : 
Iri^l She seemed a frail, fond, earnest child.' 
4J=^)// Her eyes were large and strange and 
deep — 
Eyes one would think could never sleep — 
Wild orbs that flashed an inner light ! 
Which pierced the film of outward sight, 
As lightning rends the veil of night. 
A power of vision some inherit 
To see at once both form and spirit, 
And rapturous visions oft beguiled 
The spirit of the artist child, 
And lured her where old temples stand 
In some far distant sunny land. 



An infant wonder Zelda grew 
To all who saw her — all who knew. 
She left her young companions' games 
For higher walks and nobler aims. 
They missed her answers in the class. 
And sought her 'mid the flowers and grass, 
Or where the streamlet softly purled, 
And sang of nature's inner world ; 



1/8 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

Half conscious only — half in dream 
Her fancy floated down the stream. 
And soon the ocean rolled in view — 
That mystery of arching blue ! 
She saw the heavens darkly frown 
O'er deeps where stately ships go down ; 
Beyond the gulf of rocks and gales 
She marked the gently wafted sails, 
And still beyond she traced the strand 
That girt around the sunny land. 

Sweet Zelda bloomed as wild flower blows, 
Bright as the rarest mountain rose. 
The wise reproved, the thoughtless smiled, 
And passed the idle, dreaming child, 
While lessons taught by mighty Art 
Were bursting then her burdened heart. 
She scorned the curb of form's control. 
And nursed the spirit in her soul ; 
Till fair upon the canvas grew 
The outlines of the truths she knew. 
Soon deepening touches there revealed 
That she had Nature's book unsealed — 
And read! Her trembling pencil traced 
Studies and themes, as oft effaced ; 
Then bolder flashed the living light. 
And truth, the charmer, filled the sight. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 79 



So Zelda painted. Art to her 
Was God's most sinless worshipper ; 
Sainted and stainless from its birth, 
A type of all that's pure on earth ; 
Interpreter of language, given 
To smooth the rugged path to heaven. 
High Art ! Holy God-like power 
To live an age in one short hour. 

Thus Zelda lived from all apart. 

She toiled, and toiled alone with art ; 

Neglect and ruin in its wake 

Bruised her young heart, but could not break ; 

Her faith was strong, though hope's dim star 

Could barely cast its beams so far 

To light her yet unheeded name 

From dark obscurity to fame ; 

The dim star glimmered o'er the strand 

That poets sing — the sunny land. 

And soon the happy west winds blow 

And Zelda sails in morning glow. 

When bounding o'er the billows free, 

She knew her young dream of the sea; 

Wherein she seemed a child no more, 

And courted breakers, waves and roar. 

The prescient vision told her life — 

Her heart was armed for nobler strife. 



l80 . THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The light shone brighter o'er her home 
Among the masters of old Rome. 
The great of earth, who stand sublime, 
Defiant of the storms of time, 
As brothers loved, as masters taught, 
Supreme in highest realms of thought. 
Their stone and canvas breathe for aye ! 
They live — true art can never die. 
'Mid fortune's frowns, and pain, and strife 
The brave young girl toiled on for life ; 
Not life which fades with fleeting breath, 
But vital power which conquers death. 

Where cottages are scattered thin, 
Beyond the city's dust and din, 
Fair Zelda plied her busy hand. 
And fairer grew the sunny land. 
Within her studio rapt she stood. 
Her great ambition at its flood ; 
Palette and pencil laid aside, 
She viewed a recent touch with pride ; 
Ecstatic hope wore no disguise. 
She struggled for a nation's prize : 
A royal tribute, set apart 
To grace the roll of modern art. 
Her wild emotions who can know? 
What art can paint her features' glow, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 151 



As thoughts tumultuous ebb and flow? 
With genius flashing from the walls, 
Hope crowned her queen in stately halls ; 
The central mark of wondering eyes — 
The artist girl who won the prize. 

A throng besieged the palace gates 
Where artists, trembling, wooed the Fates. 
Zelda stood there — unnoticed, lone. 
Great in herself, but still unknown. 
A rush — a thousand voices' din 
Hummed like a distant storm within. 
"The prize ! " rang out above the roar , 
Zelda beheld and heard no more ! 
Her name was voiced from ground to dome, 
And borne aloft to Mother Rome. 
Her picture won ; the crowd around 
Trod softly, as on hallowed ground. 
Now came a painful, breathless pause — 
Then burst the thunders of applause. 
So Zelda triumphed — alien born — 
'Gainst rival plots and petty scorn. 
None questioned age, or sex, or birth — 
Such art belongs to all the earth. 
Where'er she moved she heard her name 
In tones of love — and this was fame. 
A whispered hush ? The boisterous glee 
Grew tranquil as a summer sea. 



102 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The throng moved wide on either hand, 
Awed by the symbol of command. 
A lady of the land stood there, 
Whose stately mien and queenly air 
Proclaimed an empress, pure and good, 
A type of noble womanhood. 
" Zelda ! " she called — that magic name 
Rang through the hall ; the artist came. 
And Zelda knew her royal guest, 
And sobbed aloud upon her breast. 
The artist and the queen were bound 
By nature's bond on equal ground ; 
The might of genius towered elate, 
Nor bowed before the regal state ; 
The trusting girl dismissed her fears. 
The Queen dissolved in Woman's tears. 
The tender greeting o'er — behold 
On Zelda's neck a cross of gold. 




SONGS OF THE DA^A/'N. 




IS morning, and the rising day 
I Has donned his frosty robe of gray ; 
The stars — bright sentries of the skies 
Blink at the dawn with drowsy eyes, 
Then one by one their exit make. 
And vanish when the world's awake. 
Awake ! yet midnight's deepest gloom 
Still hovers in the darkened room. 
Ye sleepers ! hear the vocal swells 
Sung to the chime of matin bells ; 
They come from Labor's gleeful band, 
The native minstrels of the land, 
Birds, in their songs, from hedge and tree. 
Chant Nature's wild excess of glee ; 
In turn, their merry notes tune man, 
And then he sings — because he can. 

The earth's a business place ; its throngs 
Beguile their toil with cheerful songs. 
The World's reflector is the Press, 
Which gleams like day in morning dress. 
And casts its radiance in the gloom 
Of many a darkly curtained room. 



184 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The slothful, while supine they lie, 
Shut in from light, and air, and sky, 
May gather from the newsboy's song 
How fast Time's current sweeps along. 

"We come like heralds of the morn. 
Nor value praise, nor care for scorn ! 
We come from many a tottering shed, 
With scarce a blanket for a bed. 
Our chinky roofs admit the light, 
By which we count the hours of night, 
As star-beams through the rafters stray, 
Until we hail the break of day. 
Soon cries of ' Morning Papers ' pour 
An earnest plaint at every door; 
And upper windows, here and there. 
Are raised, admitting light and air. 
And thus we wander up and down 
Until we 'rouse the sleeping town." 

The farm-yard minstrel chanticleer — 
Lord of the roost for many a year — 
Rings out. the morning's loud alarm. 
And wakens up the drowsy farm. 
The plow-boy bounds upon the lawn. 
And yokes his team at early dawn ; 
He plows and sows the fallow field, 
Expectant of the harvest's yield ; 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 85 



While furrow deep he plods along, 
He sings his happy morning song : 

" We sturdy sons of honest toil, 
Who guide the plow and till the soil, 
Secure the brightest bloom of health, 
And open all the springs of wealth. 

" The stream which turns the busy mill 
First ripples in a mountain rill; 
We trace the current to its birth. 
And find it trickling from the earth. 

" From earth we draw the golden store 
Of fruit, and grain, and shining ore; 
Ours are the springs ; we drink our fill 
And thrive beside the sparkling rill. 

" And as the stream, meandering free. 
Pays tribute to the swallowing sea, 
So we to hungry cities yield 
The riches of the mine and field. 

" No treasure of the earth is found 
By lofty flights above the ground ; 
Star-gazing swains their fortunes mar 
Who do not court the Morning Star." 



1 86 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

At early dawn, upon the glade 
Trips forth the rosy dairy-maid. 
Her form is lithe, her face is bright. 
Revealed in mellow, misty light. 

Aurora's self is not more sweet. 
With dew-beads on her naked feet. 
Than is the simple country girl 
With eyes of blue and teeth of pearl, 
And cherry lips, whence issue wreaths 
Of perfumed mist, that morning breathes; 
Which, curling 'mong her tresses brown, 
Half veil her homespun rustic gown. 
The marble whiteness of her arms 
Suggests a wealth of hidden charms 
Brighter than painters' art e'er taught. 
Rounder than ever chisel wrought. 
Now hear the maiden, fresh and hale, 
Sweet warbling o'er her milking pail : 

"A country girl I'm proud to be; 
The country is the home for me ! 
A reigning belle I would not live 
For all the power the world can give. 
Oh, tell me not of masques and balls. 
The paint and glare of gilded halls ! 
But give me slumber's boon at night. 
And let me rise with mornine lisfht. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 1 8/ 



A country girl I'm proud to be ; 
The country is the home for me ! 

" Give me the strains of morning birds ; 
The bugle notes of lowing herds ; 
And let me quaff the sparkling wine 
Drawn foaming from the generous kine. 
I would not waste my life away, 
To crown the night, by robbing day. 
For all the gold and all the gems 
Of monarchs and their diadems. 
A country girl I'm proud to be ; 
The country is the home for me ! " 

The city sounds and songs float o'er us. 
In deep and never ending chorus; 
The human maelstrom never sleeps, 
But ebbs and flows as ocean's deeps. 
The night of pleasure drowses on 
Till startled by the rising dawn ; 
Its sickly lights fade one by one, 
As stars go out before the sun. 
Lone Riot sinks, and hears its knell 
In huckster's horn and milkman's bell — 
The echoes of those voices warm 
Which float in from the far-off farm. 
How little do ye know who sleep 
Of vigils that the lowly keep. 



i8S 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



Who rise betimes each working day 
To drive starvation's wolf away. 
Ye view existence through the haze 
That curtains all your yesterdays ; 
Ye shine with night's reflected beams, 
And languish in a land of dreams. 




SALLIE BROWN, 



^■^v^E live at home — plain, homely folks - 
Ji 4 / \ i| And let the world run riot. 
'\±MnLM Our family jars o'erflow with jokes — 
Our quarrels e'en are quiet. 

We have an infant band of three, 

All innocent and sweet ; 
Who chatter all in harmony 

With little pattering feet. 

This stream of twilight music fills 

Our measure of desire, 
When pouring forth its artless trills 

Around the evening fire. 

We've trouble, too, o'er which we muse, 

But do not tell the town ; 
Our kitchen teems with broils and stews — 

Dished up by Sallie Brown. 

Without more preface to begin ; — 

Who may be Sallie Brown ? 
A servant girl, we took her in, 

And soon she took us down. 



190 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

She entered by the alley gate 

One night at nine or later ; 
We did not find until too late 

We'd caught an alligator, 

'Twas winter time, and bitter cold ; 

We hired her as we thought ; 
We felt so cheap when we were sold 

And she so dearly bought. 

She did not suit — we missed some spoons, 

And other pantry ware : 
I lost my only pantaloons, 

Which left my wardrobe bare, 

I let them go without a fuss. 

And played philosopher : 
Our girl no more belonged to us, 

But we belonged to her. 

Beneath her spreading crinoline — 

No matter what she wore ; 
Those pantaloons so fitly mine — 

I never saw them more. 

We paid her off — yet still she stayed — 
Staid girl — from heel to crown : 

An all-time-serving servant maid 
Was our dear Sallie Brown. 



MISCELLANEOUS. I9I 



The kitchen claimed her sex and age 

And other quahfications ; 
But woman's rights were now the rage, 

And manly aspirations. 

Stuffed in among the pots and pans 

Were yellow covered novels — 
All mouldy with the stale romance 

Of ladies born in hovels. 

We had one hungry Christmas day, — 

Her last of kitchen duty, 
Before she threw herself away, 

To find herself a beauty. 

That day her conduct raised our ire ; 

The sky was dark and murky : 
Her lovers gossiped 'round the fire. 

And gobbled up our turkey. 

They drank our wine — with thirst increased 

By pastry, sweets and jam : 
They had no scruples o'er the feast, 

But closed it with a dram. 

I raved as mildly as I could 

I'm not a family snarler ; 
But hinted in a tone subdued, 

" She'd better take the parlor." 



192 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

She took it — I could not object 

'Tis rude to be uncivil : 
I bowed her in with mock respect, 

And wished her to the devil. 

I did not moan, nor sigh, nor curse, 

I did not even frown ; 
For many a home bears foibles worse 

Than those of Sallie Brown. 

A joke's a joke, while all agree 
To bear its point with patience; 

Our servant gave it out that we 
Were only poor relations. 

This cruel thrust, we passed it by — 
'Tis so unkind to quarrel; 

The steel that flashes in a lie 
Will also point a moral. 

In time we e'en enjoyed the joke. 

So truthful was its ring ; 
It might be true of other folk, 

And laughter healed the sting. 

Our servant rules, and holds the keys. 
To all our household store; 

She'll fit the station by degrees, 
As some have done before. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



193 



I took a city car one day, 

Used up and tired down ; 
But soon I gave my seat away — 

To whom ? Why, SalHe Brown. 

The people's servants, clerks and clowns 

Who rule the present hour 
Are just so many " Salhe Browns " 

Usurping place and power. 

We grieve to see their shameless tricks 

In days so dark and murky ; 
They wait the people's cuffs and kicks 

For eating up the turkey. 

The moral of the story's told ; 

The world is running riot; 
And better far than power or gold, 

Is plain domestic quiet. 




THE LEGEND OF A LEAF. 



^S^^^E sat and talked together where 
"^ifWrfiw Magnolias were in bloom ; 
S±Jt/2JLi She had their blossoms in her hair. 
But in her features gloom. 
For I would start for other lands 

Before to-morrow's shine ; 
At parting I held both her hands 
And asked her to be mine. 

She took a bright magnolia leaf 

Which flowers were nestling in, 
And on it, while she hid her grief, 

She wrote with golden pin. 
Then handing me the leaf, she said : 

" Preserve this page with care. 
And meet me living, mourn me dead. 

My answer's written there. 



" 'Tis said such writing as I've done 
Upon the leaf's smooth green 

Will, after weeks or months have gone, 
Unfold its filmy sheen, 



MISCELLANEOUS. I95 



And when the leaf is brown and sere, 
And pictures woe and blight, 

The letter tracings will appear 
In lines of living light." 

The pin upon her bosom glowed 

When last I held her hand ; 
The blank green leaf no message showed 

My heart could understand. 
Yet, handing me the leaf, she said : 

" Preserve this page with care, 
And meet me living, mourn me dead, 

My answer's written there." 

I journeyed far to other lands. 

But met no change of scene. 
For all the world was desert sands. 

With one far spot of green. 
And weeks and weary months had gone ; 

The treasured leaf each day 
I questioned, dreamed and mused upon, 

But it had naught to say. 

It was a trick by woman planned 

To soothe the parting grief. 
And now I know her lily hand 

Wrote nothing on the leaf. 



196 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

I did not have her word to thank 

For deahng me this blow, 
Yet on the fading page's blank 

Was plainly written " No ! " 

And then I hid it from my sight, 

And journeyed on and on. 
Until I plunged in polar night, 

And all the green was gone. 
And once I dreamed she came and said : 

" Preserve the page with care. 
And meet me living, mourn me dead, 

My answer's written there." 

I saw her plain as ever stood 

A thing of mortal mould. 
While throbbed on breathing flesh and blood 

Her bosom's star of gold. 
I grasped the faded leaf and read — 

The letters seemed divine — 
" Shouldst meet me living, mourn me dead 

Forever I am thine." 

I hastened through the northern night, 

I crossed the desert's sand. 
And bright one morning dawned the light 

Of dear Magnolia Land. 



MISCELLANEOUS. I97 



There had been pestilence and war, 

And ruin seemed to be. 
I saw a httle golden star 

On our magnolia tree. 

With trembling hand and loving care, 

And troubled thought within, 
I took a paper folded there 

And pinned with golden pin. 
And 'neath the whispering leaves I read 

The same words line for line : 
" Shouldst meet me living, mourn me dead, 

Forever I am thine." 

And still another word was there, 

For constancy alone. 
Which raised my heart from low despair 

When every hope had flown. 
My southern bird had taken flight 

Before the storm that fell ; 
Had winged her passage through the night 

And left that note to tell. 

And then I felt a sweet relief, 
While fiercer longings burned. 

I sent her my magnolia leaf 
To tell I had returned, 



198 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

But followed it with fluttering haste 
No more from her I'll roam, 

For we are building in the waste 
The old magnolia home. 




ENDOWMENT. 




^HERE was a meeting, late one summer night, 
Among the clouds on dim Olympus' height — 

A gathering of the Gods of Grecian story, 

In moonshine shimmer of their olden glory. 
Celestial types of Hellenic renown ; 
And all were present, from the Thunderer down. 

Grave matter, doubtless — war or want or wrong; 
Whatever's up — fit subject for a song. 
Where's a reporter with a classic head 
To take it down ? The Ancients are all dead. 

Time was when poets only could report 

Olympian councils of this sacred sort. 

But circumvent or circumscribe who can 

A nineteenth century newspaper man. 

In Protean brain and adamantine cheek 

Our bold Bohemian beats the ancient Greek. 

To head off dead-heads, squeeze out sponging bores. 

This secret conclave sat with guarded doors ; 

Yet, with their eyes alert and wits about. 

They could not keep "our correspondent" out. 



230 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

A rising wind is told by drifting straws, 

And frowning brows portend a stormy cause. 

But here came bright eyes — beauties wreathed with 

smiles — 
The fair immortals, sweet with woman's wiles. 

It was not battle's victories or defeats, 

For Mars and stern Minerva took back seats. 

No first-class deity appeared to know 

The reason why they were assembled so. 

Nymphs, Naiads, Fauns of hill and stream and grove 

All marveled much why they were called — by Jove ! 

They sat like audience in a theatre 

Awaiting some new wonder to appear. 

Transfer the scene to more familiar light ; 
Suppose a play-house on that mountain height; 
And here we are — gods, goddesses and all — 
In due obedience to some sovereign call ; 
And dead-heads too — d'eny it if you can. 
And that ubiquitous newspaper man. 

The scene is changed. The people here decree, 

And their one voice is law of Deity. 

Who speaks ? The tones come thrilling from the 

crowd — 
The speaker hidden as behind a cloud : 
" 'Tis rumored here, these modern pigmy clods 



MISCELLANEOUS. 201 



Imagine they can do without the gods. 
Deluded mortals, we befriend them still, 
And make our favorites great against their will. 
Say Barbarism's past ! Arc we despised ? 
Our care be now to keep men civilized. 
Say War is over ! Shall our counsel cease ? 
They need it more to foster arts of peace. 
And Peace it is; and joy now fills our hearts 
In place of jealous rage and wrangling smarts; 
Come forth and reign, ye guardians of the arts." 

Who's this replies ? Melpomene, tearful muse ! 
What god or mortal could her plaint refuse ? 
" We feel a want to fill the mimic scene, 
A young, endowed, star-shining, tragic queen ; 
One who can weather Life's tempestuous flood — 
Embodiment of Passion's flesh and blood ; 
A woman who can feel all mortal pains — 
A harp attuned to Nature's waiHng strains — 
This is our want — to show how brief the bloom, 
And that the world is modeled for a tomb." 

Thalia claims a hearing next in order, 

And trusts the crowd an audience will accord her. 

Accorded : thus the merry muse replies : 

" Now let our weeping sister dry her eyes; 

Wet spoils her beauty — keep an onion near — 

Good to distil the sympathetic tear. 



202 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Life has enough sad sorrows of its own, 

Without grief's masquerade and mimic moan ; 

Why should mankind their noble powers enslave, 

And mope by moonlight round an open grave ? 

Let's show them how to live in shining day, 

And not in shadows drone their lives away. 

Why not bring down the house with mirth and 

laughter, 
And shake its lazy sides from floor to rafter? 
Present to men the funny face of Folly, 
And over their pet foibles make them jolly. 
We wani a. change of bill — a happier scene — 
For Horror's head, a radiant, laughing Queen. 
" Professional spite ! " The deep-toned voice replies ; 
"Ladies, you're jealous; come now, harmonize." 
They stand together, beaming rival graces. 
With just a shade of anger on their faces. 
Each plays her queenly part with flashing eyes. 
While round the circle murmurs "harmonize." 
" We take our stand for classic art," says one ; 
Rejoins the other: "We go in for fun. 
We think it our high mission to amuse — 
Not play on keen emotions to abuse ; 
High Tragedy, we grant, is art's devotional ; 
But what's that tragic palsy, the emotional, 
By which youth's bloom gets hopelessly stage- 
struck. 
And in the quicksands of perdition stuck ? 



MISCELLANEOUS. 20- 



Why, every school-girl Juliet's heart is set 
On early death and tomb of Capulet. 
If suicide goes on at such a pace, 
Your tragedy will stop the human race." 

Again that voice : " To have these quarrels done, 

A miracle shall blend you both in one. 

We want a woman of impassioned soul 

And body joined to play your dual role ; 

We shall endow her with a force and mind 

For tragic power and comic grace combined ; 

A Siddons, Rachel, Cushman — artists true, 

And what we lost in lovely Neilson, too. 

Of all our good gifts, we bestow our best 

On the fresh genius of the New World West. 

The name precise is not selected yet, 

Perhaps 'tis Mary — maybe Margaret. 

' What's in a name ? ' And really, what's the odds, 

Since prophecy is guess-work of the gods ? " 

And bursting in the ferment of the crowd. 

As from the billowy bosom of a cloud. 

Comes like a peal of thunder: "She's endowed ! " 

Some say with genius ; inspiration, some; 
Many are called, but few there be who come. 
All start upon life's race-course fresh and gay ; 
Those run ahead who hardest work their way. 



THE SHORELESS SEA. 



fBOVE the world, beneath, around. 
Forever rolls a shoreless sea ; 
, , Unknown, save by the low, profound, 

Weird murmur of infinity. 

Reason is blind ! Amid the gloom 

Which shrouds the silent, heaving deep, 

Her feeble light can ne'er illume 
The chambers of eternal sleep. 

Wouldst thou the mystic veil withdraw. 

Which screens the Living Throne from man ; 

And trace the cause beyond the law. 
Which was before the world began ? 

The earth and all it holds is thine ; 

The growth on valley, plain, and hill, 
Thou hast the air, the sea, the mine, 

And fire to mould them to thy will. 

Trace if thou canst, the fountain's source ; 

The drops which swell the sparkling tide. 
Slow trickling in their mid-earth course, 

Bewilder, while they seem to guide. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 20$ 



Explore the heavens with eye intent, 
Catch every golden gleam from far ; 

And search the arching firmament, 
From sun to telescopic star. 

Allay thy thirst at Learning's fount : 
Examine strata — break the clod ; 

Then let thy soaring vision mount, 
And view the shining tracks of God. 

Thou canst not sound the Shoreless Sea ; 

Unfathomed by the plummet, Time : 
Where life, through all eternity 

Has circled round its source sublime. 

Day gleams beyond thy straining look ; 

Thy soul in blinding darkness grieves : 
God closes his Eternal book, 

And thought lies crushed between the leaves. 

Vain mortal ! Turn within thyself — 
Thou fountain of mysterious force, 

Which springs for honor, power or pelf; 

And trace the drops which shape thy course ! 

'Tis easy : life is born of Life, 

As fountains spring from mist and rain ; 

It journeys through its term of strife, 
And circles to its source again. 



206 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

From Oceans' depths the mists arise : 
They fall, and sink in Mother Earth : 

Then seek again the parent skies, 
And spring renewed in second birth. 

Through Nature's mazy crypts profound, 
Thy search for light will fruitless be : 

Life's stream is thine above the ground, 
While dashing towards the Shoreless Sea. 

Thou soul akin to heavenly light. 

Whom blazing orbs impelled to soar : 

Thy thoughts like stars aflame by night, 
In darkness spend their borrowed store. 

If, from the highest peak of fame, 
Immortal genius sound thy worth ; 

Soon, men will read an unknown name 
Upon thy little mound of earth. 

Time's torrent dashes, swift and strong, 
And ever towards the Shoreless Sea : 

And in its drift we sweep along — 
The sailors of Eternity. 



CHIMNEY GHOST. 



AN IDYL OF THE SOUTH. 



CHIMNEY by the roadside stands 
WU With bhghted creepers hung; 
lltuA. Around it whirl the sifted sands 
From traveled highway flung, 
It towers, and glooms, and Aus/i commands ; 
And speaks with stony arms and hands, 
In lieu of tongue. 

A figure dumb, yet eloquent ; 

And carved by no man's hand, 
It frowns, a sombre monument 

By demon builders planned. 
To give some fiendish purpose vent 
And keep a brow of horror bent 
Upon the land. 

And poisonous vines around it cling 

To guard its mystery ; 
From lurking thorn, and nettle's sting 

Barefooted children flee ; 



208 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

To every living, breathing thing 
Its shadow makes a baneful ring — 
Like Upas tree. 

No foliage in the circle waves 
And prattles laughing tones ; 

Yet near by, while it wails or raves, 
A pine tree drops its cones — 

Like tears upon forgotten graves 

For which some soul remembrance craves, 
And sighs and moans. 

A choked and barren orchard sheds 
Some fruitless blossoms near : 

The vagrant wild-flowers hide their heads, 
And shrink in fluttering fear; 

A broken arbor, vines in shreds. 

And weed-invaded flower-beds 
Lie waste and sear. 

A home which neither roof nor hall. 
Nor heart, nor fireside owns ; — 

No chamber, but this chimney tall 
With stairs of crumbling stones. 

Charred tracings make a funeral pall, 

And beams and rubbish round, are all 
Unburied bones. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 2O9 



A chimney stark; no wreath of smoke 

Ascends in breath-like cloud. 
The stately pillared porch is broke, — 

The walls in dust are bowed ; 
And idle gazers come and croak 
About the house's palsy stroke — 
Above its shroud. 

There's nothing strikes such sickening dread 

As blight without a frost ; 
And here's a home so stricken dead : 

What clinging lives it cost, 
And how it loved, and strove, and bled, 
And stained the fountains where it fed, — 
All this is lost. 

A desert picture girt all round 

With frame of waving green ; 
A void of life without a sound ; 

A landscape dead in scene ; — 
As though the lightning imps had found 
And made the place a training ground 
To sport their sheen. 

'Tis in the flowery South-Land, where 

The sweet Magnolia blows ; 
And music fills the scented air 

With passion of repose ; 



2IO THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

And dusky forms in gardens fair 
Are planting here ; — and training there 
The musky rose. 

Some charge this ruin on a war 
Which laid the country low ; 

And others blame Fate's evil star 
Which blasts with ashen glow, 

And hovers near, and follows far, 

Like vengeance driving fiery car 
O'er fallen foe. 

The tattered fire-place seems to kneel — 
A suppliant, choked and dumb — 

Some sudden anguish to reveal 
In words that will not come. 

Yet, silenced by eternal seal, 

It makes the rapt beholder_/>^/ 
This zvas a home. 

Enough : — the home has lived and died, 

Nor record left nor tone ; 
It locks one secret deep beside 

The darkness of its own. 
I come, with lingering love for guide 
To find a Memory — petrified — 
Its own eravestone. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 211 



The country gossips who delight 

In marvels, gravely tell 
That often travelers in the night 

Are bound here by a spell, 
The while, a woman, fluttering white 
Who seems a most unhappy sprite, 
Sings how she fell. 

The crescent moon, like broken ring 
Tossed on the foamy crest 

Of some dark wave of sorrowing 
Is dropping down the West ; 

Now shrouded by the billows' wing 

It fades, and seems a dying thing, 
And sinks to rest. 

I stand upon the old fire-place 

Amid the dust of blight, 
Am thinking of a vanished Grace, 

In this all-swallowing night. 
And on the background dark I trace 
The shadowy outlines of her face 
In lines of light. 

And goodness in her features glows 

As radiant as a star ; 
Her heart is pure as whitest rose, 

And sweet as roses are. 



212 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

And now, within my bosom flows 
A current, as of melted snows 
From peaks afar. 

A glimmer ? — Like a wandering light ! 

It moves with human pace ; 
The tongue of Gossip once is right, 

I see a dim, pale face. 
There's nothing in it to affright, 
And yet 'tis strange to see at night — 
In such lone place. 

I feel a life that touched and stirred 
My own with hope and fear ; 

I feel the magic of a word 
Unspoken many a year : 

And like a far chant faintly heard, 

Or cadence of a singing-bird, 
It soothes my ear. 

She speaks, as though awake the dead 

To tell forbidden things 
Of down below, or overhead, 

Or ghostly wanderings. 
Where feet of mortals never tread. 
And while I hold the story's thread, 
She says, and sings: — 



MISCELLANEOUS. 2I3 



I come — the wraith that haunts the vale, 

'Tis said from chimney-flue ; 
I've laughed to hear the ghostly tale ; 

And be it false or true, 
I bid you at my hearth-stone, hail ! 
I sing again my nightly wail. 
And all for you. 

They say — here dwells a haunting woe; 

They call me Chimney Ghost ; — 
In very truth I come and go 

But twice a year at most ! — 
And then I walk in dusky eve 
To hide my face, but not deceive 
A dolt, or post. 

I've longed for many a day and year 

To tell my shuddering tale. 
How laughter once resounded here 

Where now sobs ruin's wail. 
How, where you stand, beamed light and cheer- 
A happy world without a tear — 
All bright and hale. 

The master was a lord o' the land — 

And high on honor's roll; 
Like prince he lived in mansion grand, 

And gave no stinted dole ; 



214 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

But with good fortune at command 
He reached to all a welcoming hand 
With open soul. 

A prince of Nature's royal blood 
With culture's polished mien, 

He ruled the peaceful neighborhood, 
Was Discord's go-between. 

His wife beside him queenly stood, 

And daughter, bright, and pure, and good. 
And seventeen. 

O ! how they loved their only child ! 

And you do not forget 
How every one who knew her, smiled 

On little Margaret. 
The Valley-Lily she was styled ; — 
All blooming, dancing, free, and wild. 
In sunshine set. 

And many called her passing fair — 

Of that I should not speak. 
But for the sting that poisons where 

Most women are most weak. 
Of beauty's gloss she had her share 
In form, and brow, and eye, and hair, 
And rosy cheek. « 



MISCELLANEOUS, 215 



She won admirers — honest men, 

Who followed her with sighs ; 
Who never spoke with tongue or pen 

Yet ever with their eyes. 
They talked with her, and now and then 
They walked with her in wood and glen, 
'Neath starry skies. 

You may have been such follower — 

May now recall the scene ; 
She had one ardent worshipper — 

Yov know the one I mean ; 
She could have loved him — he loved her- 
I did not think your heart to stir — 
So long 't has been. 

But she was vain, and he was proud, 

And themes arose to jar ; 
And discontent with mutterings loud, 

Joined forces near and far. 
And thunder-toned, and lightning browed 
Rolled up a direful tempest cloud ; 
He rode to war. 

And then a suitor came to woo, 
Who drove his span from town ; 

At first, whene'er he near her drew. 
She choked her anger down. 



2l6 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

She hated him ; yet thought of you 
At war with her. Revenge was due ; 
She ceased to frown. 

And chidings warned her lovingly 
Of false lights — golden-beamed; 

But one vow-pledged reality 

Shone brighter than she'd dreamed ; 

A palace home, a queen to be; 

A summer cottage by the sea 
Bewildering gleamed. 

She did not love — she did not hate ; 

Of wounded pride she bled ; 
He seemed so frank, of good estate — 

A life of leisure led; 
A vengeful will controlled her fate. 
She had no heart with him to mate, 
Yet vowed to wed. 

She disappeared one summer day, 
But whither none could tell. 

'Twas whispered : " Maggie's run away," 
All up and down the dell ; 

And old and young, and grave and gay 

With look of sadness seemed to say: — 
" Poor Marearet fell," 



MISCELLANEOUS. 21/ 



The dashing span returned no more ; 

Its ominous absence meant — 
Such things had often been before — 

Behind the span she went. 
Against the sympathy in store 
Her father closed and barred his door 
In banishment. 

He could not suffer Pity's dole 
Like alms, though kindly given ; 

His life had reached its bitter goal 
By dire misfortune riven. 

He burrowed darkly like the mole 

Beneath the shadow on his soul, 
To madness driven. 

The mother ! Where may language find 

Fit words to speak her woe ? 
'Twas said, she wandered, — low in mind, 

The neighbors called it so — 
To yon deep thicket, dark and blind 
And gave her spirit to the wind 
There moaning low. 

Her corpse was by a woodman found 

Upon the spring-brook side ; 
And stains were yet upon the ground 

Which drank the crimson tide ; 



2l8 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

By other symptoms strewn around, 
Her own hand made the ghastly wound 
Of which she died. 

And soon, one midnight's awful hour 
A storm of horrors fell; — 

Around this tottering chimney-tower 
A blaze lit up the dell. 

The red cloud rained a fiery shower, 

And where the master went, no power 
On earth could tell. 

I guess his fate. Entombed he calls 
From out death's dismal cave ; 

I know he fled the flaming halls 
He vainly strove to save. 

The thought my very soul appalls ! 

In yon well, 'neath the fallen walls, — 
There is his grave. 

On that dread night in terror's thrall 

Stood Margaret at the door — 
Stood there to hear her father call 
To see him — nevermore. 
. She had returned to tell him all ; 

Too late, — and he believed her fall — 
The old talis o'er. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 2I9 



Her heart was famished for the food 

Of love she'd cast away ; 
Repentant at the door she stood 

Forgiveness' boon to pray ; — 

Ashamed of blot on face of good, 

And from the fold of maidenhood 

Not gone astray. 

Twice lost — she darted from this place 

Away — regardless where : 
The blood-red tempest stained her face, 

And lashed her streaming hair. 
The maddened fire-fiend gave her chase, 
Still on — she ran the dreadful race — 
With gaunt despair. 

And no one saw her come and go. 

Or seeing no one knew; 
None heard how Pride became her foe 

And how she triumphed too ; — 
And how the war did round her throw 
As army nurse, a cloak for woe — 
None know but you. 

She moves, — and how my heart beats fast; 

A white robe shimmers there ; 
A sobbing something flutters past 

With tread too firm for air. 



220 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Could fancy such a semblance cast 
Of Maggie as I saw her last? 
But riper fair. 

The crescent hangs against the sky 

In rift broad, blue and clear, 
The figure casts its shadow nigh ; 

'Tis not a shape to fear; — 
'Tis flesh and blood — can laugh and cry, 
'Tis Margaret's self: — not gliding by; 
I hold her here. 

We meet again, — what each hoped most ; 

From stormy sea's alarm ; 
We land upon a shining coast. 

Beyond the billows' harm. 
With many future plans engrossed, 
I, and the charming Chimney Ghost 
Walk arm in arm. 

The war is past, and peace is here 

Rejoicing in its room ; 
And 'round the whole horizon clear 

The sky is swept of gloom : 
Our broken homes unite with cheer, 
And gardens trodden, waste and sear, 
Renew their bloom. 



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OUR BEST ROOM. 




lM^[OME to our house in the country, 
Out among the birds and bees, 
Building nests, and honey gathering 
In the early garden trees. 
Peach and apple are in blossom. 

And the lilacs laugh with bloom ; 
Come to our house, and we'll open 
To thy footstep our best room. 



'Tis the only shadow 'round us 

Never pierced by sunny ray — 
Striking where the child is romping, 

Casting gloom upon its play. 
I have seen the roses cluster 

On the blank and barren wall — 
On the dead, unyielding shutter ; 

Seen them bloom, and fade, and fall. 



Never came a friendly visit, 

With its greeting, stir, and din ; 

All the summer long no strangers 
Came to let the rose leaves in. 



222 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Come to our house in the country, 
Drive away our shade of gloom ; 

Wide we'll open to thy knocking 
All the blinds of our best room. 

Come, before the ripened harvest 

Waves its flags of yellow gold ; 
Come, and see the sowers' promise 

Increase of an hundredfold, 
While the fluttering corn-blades prattle 

Of the gems their husks enclose. 
And the stalks embrace each other. 

Lapping arms across the rows. 

Now the country waves a welcome, 
Banners float in field and tree ; 

Hidden minstrels vie in singing: — 
" Here is beauty — come and see ! " 

Come and see the vernal glory. 
Come and feel the bliss of pride, 

When the Sun, an ardent bridegroom. 
Leads the blushing Earth, as bride. 

Come and hear the choral anthems 
Floating on the singing breeze ; 

Where the grand old hills are organs 
Growing pipes of singing trees. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 223 



Incense from the swinging censers 
Sweetens every wind that blows — 

Come and breathe the mingled odors 
At the fountains of the rose. 

Come ! Taste all the sweets of being 

At the summer founts of rest ; 
Come, and bathe in crystal beauty 

Where the waters all are blest ; 
Greet the rosy cheeks of morning 

With a zest that never cloys ; 
Dally on the couch of evening, 

Dappled 'round with golden joys. 

Here, within an Eden blooming, 

Love was blest and children grew ; 
Years and years the springs returning 

Crowned themselves with blossoms new. 
Years and years one shadow deepened 

In the midst of sun and bloom, 
'Till it seems — we dread to breathe it — 

There's a ghost in our best room. 

Work is tuned to merry marches ; 

Hear its accents jocund ring 
In the highway, field, and woodland, 

Timed to measures of the spring. 



224 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Life is cast of earnest labor ; 

If its metal's ring be true, 
Give the bell the tongue of pastime, 

Toning all we have to do. 

Rosa's up and in the dairy, 

Humming o'er her milking pail, 
While her pan-and-kettle music 

Tinkle through a misty veil. 
In the foggy front of morning, 

Every day — or foul, or fair — 
In the evening twilight shadows — 

Always cheery, she is there. 

Anna's busy, neat and careful, 
With a dash of playful art ; 

Tidy graces sweep around her 

While she gives the house her heart 

Baking, bare-armed, in the kitchen, 
Then, with handy brush and broom, 

Sweeping over flecks of sunshine — 
* Dusting 'round our spot of gloom. 

Rosa has her pets and playthings — 
Things that fortune frowns upon ; 

Anna's pride, when work is over, . 
Bursts in beauty on the lawn. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



225 



You would never think them kindred — 

Not when side by side they stand — 

Rosa's brown from wind and weather ! 

Anna's fair, with dainty hand. 
« 

Yet they're sisters, sweet and loving, 

Each in life's allotted part 
Finds the motive of her being, 

Rules the Empire of the Heart. 
Each, dividing cares of household, 

Stands confessed the house's head ; 
Rosa stores the milk and butter, 

Anna kneads the milk-white bread. 

Both are loved, and both are lovely. 

Modest daughters of the farm ; 
One is plain and one is pretty — 

Equal worth gives equal charm. 
Anna loves the forms of beauty. 

Even in her nut-brown loaves ; 
Slighted things abused by others 

Are the pets that Rosa loves. 



All year 'round the nights and mornings 
On these sisters set and rise, 

'Mid the thousand cares, that challenge 
Patient hands and watchful eyes. 



!26 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

Midday brings their paths together. 
Shows the contrast of their bloom, 

Sitting, chatting, sewing, knitting — 
Keeping guard on our best room. 

Here are strangers ! Open windows ! 

Every room must welcome make ! 
Light and air have raised the eyelids, 

All the house is wide awake ; 
From the murky room come odors 

Dank and musk and varnish blent ; 
Timid children peer around it. 

Wondering where the darkness went. 

Hark 1 The tall clock in its corner 

Wakes and strikes with sudden start, 
As the streams of air and sunshine 

Pour around its shrunken heart. 
Heir-loom of our generations, 

Passing to the oldest boy ; 
We can hear its peals of laughter, 

We can feel its throbbing joy. 

Strangers ! — friends and city people — 

Gentle, easy and refined ! 
Out of town to spend the season. 

Seeking sport and rest of mind. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 22/ 



They have come with shining presence, 
Chased our shadows from the door, 

Here at our house in the country — 
Now we ask for nothing more. 

All the day our home is making 

Music of the gladsome heart ; 
In the merry concert ringing, 

Children play their little part. 
Early walks to sunrise hill-tops 

Meet the glow of blushing day ; 
" Good night " sighs in twilight rambles, 

Where the moonshine glints the way. 

Bounties of a father's table 

Are with lavish plenty spread : — 
Rosa's prints of yellow butter ! 

Anna's loaves of matchless bread ! 
O'er the tea-urn beams our mother, 

Radiant as a full-orbed star — 
Fountain of a love that leads us 

Where the world's best offerings are. 

Rounds of pleasure speed the summer 
On its flowery-margined way; 

And the brightest banks of roses 
Bloom for Anna's wedding day, 



228 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



In the holy calm of rapture, 
Lovely bride and happy groom 

Join their hands for aye and ever — 
Seal their vows in our best room. 




THE WINDING ROAD IN THE WOOD. 



1i'¥fH\0M.'E by the winding road in the wood 
lOr Which girdles the mountain slope, 
^^^\ And follows the dashing, silver flood, 

As life is guided by Hope. 
It curves and rambles with wilful pride, 

Where brightest the wild flowers blow ; 
'Mong rocks and brambles on every side, 

With th' green above and below. 
Oh ! let us turn from the highway wide, 

And follow the silver flood. 
Where roses are lining on every side 
The winding road in the wood. 

The balmy morning is dripping through 

The fringes of vine-clad trees, 
And crystal drops of diamond dew 

Perfume the wings of the breeze. 
Moist with the breath of the waterfall. 

We pause, and list to the din 
Of the clattering mill, and the quiet call 

To fare at the wayside inn. 
So life may dawn on a shady slope, 

In view of the silver flood. 
And rest in the calm of a cherished hope, 

By the winding road in the wood. 



230 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Despite the glare of the noontide ray, 

Our path is pleasant and cool — 
We picnic all in the heat of the day, 

And lunch by the fountain pool. 
The wood-sprites chatter and disappear 

Within their mossy domain ; 
Birds hop around without tremor of fear, 

And gather the crumbs that remain. 
So, at the mid-day of life we repast 

On memories happy and good, 
And thoughts for the hungry world we cast 

On the winding road in the wood. 

Now daylight fades and evening descends — 

And soon it will be dark night; 
Our coming is cheered by welcoming friends 

Whose dwellings appear in sight — 
The city is near, serene and blest; 

Above it, the red, round moon; 
And lighted and guided we'll sink to rest 

At the end of our journey soon. 
We rest where no fiery passions goad 

At the source of the silver flood ; 
How happy is life by the shady road — 

The winding road in the wood. 






-»' »« " ■»■ *» '1 i^ 



«»™.t ir m n !■ rt 



TWICE A CHILD. 



HAD a song to sing at morning-tide 
Of sweet young spring as first she came to me, 
And we as lovers met with mutual glee ; 
But as I grew, endearments multiplied, 
And crowded song and many things beside, 
Quite out of sight, and out of memory. 

Life's fragments left, seem hardly worth a song, 
And would not be, but for some younger men 
Who dream and think and feel as I did then ; 
Or in their passion-torrent sweeping strong, 
May sometimes for their childish playthings long, 
As I do now, — at Life's three score and ten. 



And now I sing it ere the visions fly : 
It may be with a feeble piping voice — 
Here in the evening cool — away from noise ; 
No matter if it make me laugh or cry 
I still would sing my song before I die, 
Among the shades of dim remembered joys. 



232 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

I do not know just how it came to be, 
But I remember me — a child at play- 
In mellow sunshine — that was yesterday ; 
And then there came a blank — a syncope, 
And all the sense of life died out of me, 
And Thought grew dark, and Memory lost its way. 

So many tuneful voices came with spring, 
That filled my heart with rhapsodies of song; 
I hstened often, and I pondered long, 
And sometimes did I even try to sing 
But could not give my fancies soaring wing, 
To hold their courses regular and strong. 

I nursed a voiceless poem in my heart 
Which beat and swelled with tide of impulse high. 
Yet yielded nothing for the ear or eye. 
And little solace for life's toiling part. 
Except the thought that shot like golden dart 
To sing my song of spring before I die. 

Something has happened ; what, I can not tell ; 
There must have been a painful period long ; 
I had a fever and my head was wrong. 

And then methought I heard a dreadful knell ! 

It seemed I died, yet here alive and well, 
I'm singing now my childhood's cheery song. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 233 



I have it : Something whispered I was old. 

It was a false voice sent to torture me ; 

For I am merry and from sorrow free, 

And still the bursting blooms of Spring behold 
Through sunshine's melting spray of yellow 
gold, — 

And all is blissful as it used to be. 

The other children like me, and we run 
With wayward feet all o'er a flowery land ; 
But one of them forever holds my hand, 
And leads me to the spots of brightest sun, 
And there we have the rarest freaks of fun ; 
But why I'm led I scarcely understand. 

I know : My mother told me how it fell. 
I have been ill — too ill to know or speak, 
And in the fields the breath of health I seek. 

'Twas then I thought I heard that dreadful knell 
But now I feel myself completely well 
And only, maybe, just a little weak. 

The breath of spring days rank with flowers and 
grass 

Will bring me through and give me strength again ; 

It was a dream, that I had walked with men 
Among a selfish, hardened, wrangling mass 
Where I was roughly handled, crushed. Alas ! 

Three score ? I'm only lately turned of ten. 



234 1"HE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

And here I am with romping girls and boys, 
Enjoying all their thoughts and moods and play, 
And laughing merry as the bird-song day : 
We have our little griefs ; but boundless joys, 
A feast of childishness that never cloys ; 
This old brown pipe I picked up by the way. 

Now let me smoke it for the day is done ; 

Where did I learn to smoke ? No matter where ; 

I like the fumes, nor further know, nor care, 
The cloud will vanish in to-morrow's sun, 
When noisy play-time calls'us, every one. 

And with rejoicing fills the joyful air. 

I seem to think the things I've thought before, 
And speak the old words too, from day to day ; 
As though they had been said, and laid away ; 
I fear I sing the same song o'er and o'er 
And then the music marches slower, and slower. 
And words drop in I did not mean to say. 

My clothes are all so loose I have to laugh 
At such a botch : I wonder who's to blame ? 
And nothing seems to fit me but my name. 

This cane ! How comes it that I need a staff! 

'Tis just as useless as an epitaph 
To living man, and very much the same. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 23$ 



The other day I heard my darling Rose 
Say to a playmate : " Grandpa's such a child ; " 
And then I looked the other way and smiled ; 

Of course I am as everybody knows ; 

But why tell of it so mysterious, close. 
As if I w^re not right or reconciled ? 

Sweet Rose ! That name when e'er I hear it spoke, 

Of still another Rose it seems to tell; 

And then I hear again that dreadful knell 

Ring through my life with slow and muffled stroke 
To call me back where once my heart was broke, 

O ! would I could forget that tolling bell. 

Why does it murmur with a mournful tongue. 
Afar and hidden in the midway gloom 
And strike the ghostly watches of the tomb 
For me alone, — while I am yet so young, 
And with my maiden song of Spring unsung, 
Which should be full of life and joy and bloom ? 

And when it sounds I smell the fresh-turned 
mould. 
With grasses mingled, and with wild thyme trod ; 
And then I feel the shock of falling clod 

Whose rattle makes my very blood run cold ; 

I've seen that place before, and young or old, 
I know the walled field, and uneven sod. 



236 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Should I be old and childish? Be it so; 

'Tis no misfortune, nor disgrace I ween ; 

Two childhoods, with no middle life between ? 
I'm not so childish but I right well know 
The time of day, night-fall, and morning's glow, 

And drifts of snow, and budding springtime's green. 

It must be so ; it is, now dawns the light, 
Beneath the cloud it shoots with level ray ; 
But 'tis the evening sun — reversing day. 
And shows my scattered hair all silver white 
Like star beams falling o'er the brow of night ; 
And I am shrunken, weak, and old and gray. 

Sweet Rose, come here ! did'st thou live long ago 
In some place where I lost myself with thee ; 
And where we followed a sweet melody 

Until it breathed so far away and low 

It seemed into another life to flow ? 
And here it comes again for Rose and me ! 

This is the fragrant harvest-time of heart, 
When all the years their treasured sweets enclose 
And love is garnered 'neath the winter's snows. 
And fortune's hurt, and sorrow's stinging smart 
That come to all, have played their painful part ; 
The thorn haunts not the essence of the rose. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 23/ 



Don't think me foolish, child ; I have my fears 
That things are not the very things they seem ; 
And that I'm waking from a troubled dream — 

The lingering nightmare of my working years ; 

There's nothing in it calling for thy tears, 
But tell me, laughing, with thy blue eyes' beam ; 

Nay, do not speak ; look, what I'd have thee tell 
I feel the truth thy prattle would disclose : 
My path of Hfe the full round circuit shows, 

The childhood's meet, embrace, and all is well. 

I hear the toning of that bhssful bell. 
For her and me. Thy grandmother is my Rose. 



OCCASIONAL. 



THE GIANTS. 



PRESS ASSOCIATION POEM. 




[IM. legends tell of giants fierce and bold — 
The scourge of men in warlike days of old ; 
In stature monsters, terrible and grim. 
Whose vaunted power was massive strength 
of limb. 
One so created in the mould of wrath 
Strode forth to battle for the hosts of Gath. 
Like other monster-growths, they passed away. 
And left their impress deep in plastic clay. 



Creative forces — formless, undefined — 
Enfold the deep mysterious germs of mind. 
The world is ever building — never done, 
With every change creation's work goes on ; 
And giants build it — from the central fires 
Up to the highest peaks of mountain spires ; — 
Giants of earth and fire, and sea, and air. 
Below, around, above and everywhere. 



OCCASIONAL. 239 



'Tis told in story's page, and voiced in song 
How other giants helped the world along — 
The stately beacon-towers of humankind 
That bore the first immortal sparks of mind. 
They rose above the all-surrounding night 
And flashed the earliest gleam of morning light 
Ere full-plumed day with lustrous breezy wings 
Had brushed the darkness from the face of things. 
These columns stand adown the misty steep, 
Where deed-embalmed the mummied ages sleep. 
They fill each living epoch's wondering sight. 
For still they flash the early morning light. 
We climb the steep ; these beacons point the way 
Ascending towards the crystal dome of Day. 
Inspired by hopes, 'mid clouds of doubts and 

fears, 
We mount the tottering stairway of the years ; 
System succeeds to system — clod to clod — 
Building rude earthworks to the heights of God. 

Within a temple pillared mountain high. 
With bed rock floor, and roof of arching sky. 
Where science makes all nature's empire hers. 
And Physics trains her young philosophers, 
A virgin queen exalts a royal seat, 
With ardent wooers thronging at her feet. 
Her robe is plain ; one solitary gem 
Lights up the crescent of her diadem. 



240 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Her purpose pure is pledged by vestal vow, 

And Truth's auroras dawn upon her brow. 

Her thoughts are out upon that solemn sea 

Which glistens star-gemmed to Infinity. 

Intent she bends her telescopic eyes 

As questioning some new marvel in the skies. 

Her voice proclaims the triumph of her sight, 

And shouts : "Another star has come to light ! " 

Rapt millions catch her words, and near and far 

All hail with joy the advent of a star. 

Not all — shut up in self with folded hands, 

The universal croaker sneering stands. 

His wisdom brooding emulates the owl, 

And thus he hoots displeasure v/ith a scowl : 

"A fresh arrival from yon boundless sea ; 

Another sail from dim infinity ! 

A new-born star has floated in your ken : 

A spark supernal ! What is that to men ? 

A little glow worm is of vaster worth, 

For it, at least, is useful to the earth ! 

Your star, with me, no spark of favor finds ; 

The light you boast of is the light that blinds ! 

While searching out some far and barren sphere. 

You overlook earth's riches that are near. 

We have examples of the good you've done : 

Some ugly spots you found upon the sun : 

You have dispelled the magic of the bow 

That casts athwart the storm its peaceful glow ; 



OCCASIONAL. 241 



Deluged the flood with explanations dark ; 

Destroyed the grand old safety of the ark ; 

Uprooted Eden ; given its bridal bower 

To charms more subtle than the serpent's power ; 

Created an obscure creation, when 

Brisk monkeys were the ancestors of men. 

And crowning bad, with sacrilege still worse 

You've made a plaything of the Universe. 

Tell me, vain Dreamer, since your reign began, 

What real blessing have you brought to man ? " 

The queenly Presence, stern and dignified, 
Surveyed the vastness of her realm with pride. 
And then she spoke : " The world is getting old, 
But not like men whose sickly hearts grow cold : 
Change is her law — a mournful change of late 
Is that her men are not by far so great. 
Observe her progeny when she was young, 
'Twas lusty soil from which those giants sprung. 
Each towering form would make — 'tis no great 

praise — 
A hundred little men of modern days. 
They fought for life unaided, and they won 
With Nature's armor buckled loosely on ; 
They had no need of battlements and swords ; 
Their arms were truth, and wisely spoken words, 
They live — immortal by their sovereign might, 
Forever crowned with wreaths of morning light ! 



242 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

And ye — the magnates of a later day — 
With all their light see not so far as they ! 
By them upraised Hope nerves you to aspire, 
And build your systems higher, and still higher ; 
And this lone virtue called me to your aid 
To guide the progress that the world has made. 

" I came to build amid the ruin wrought 

By Superstition — cowering fiend of thought ; 

That ogre of the night with croaking mind, 

And owly vision — to the noonday blind. 

Since man had fall'n from that high mental sphere 

Where rose his young perception wide and clear, 

I'd court for him what outward wealth supplies — 

Such aid as glasses give to aged eyes. 

The greatest monarchs to my feet I'd bring, 

And who so powerful as the Iron King ? 

Related to our race by ties of blood, 

He wears the attributes of humanhood 

To sympathize with wants, and cares and pains 

Through his own atoms coursing in our veins. 

What mission-labor could my thoughts engage 

To yield such glory as an Iron Age ? 

For in its coming, man his strength regains, 

A physical and moral savior reigns. 

Lamenting deeply your degenerate birth, 

I sought for champions in the air and earth. 

That might compensate for the loss you bear 



OCCASIONAL. 243 



By ages dark, would they their bounty share. 

Could I but conquer these, the deed would be 

A crown of joy, and lasting victory ! 

A race of giants born amid the strife 

Of lawless atoms wakening into life ! 

They walked abroad when nothing seemed to be 

But sea and sun — the blazing sun, and sea. 

The circling orb impregned the idle stream 

With fruitful dalliance of his living beam. 

Dark, wavy slime, snail-like began to creep. 

Then monster reptiles ploughed along the deep, 

Dread sounds ne'er heard by man awoke in forms. 

That perished battling with primeval storms — 

Commingled thunders, hisses, wails and groans 

Which antedate the age of Mastodons. 

Mixed land and water surged, and parted wide. 

Till lofty summits nodded o'er the tide. 

And happy valleys teemed with roving herds. 

And tameless beasts, and choirs of singing birds. 

'Twas thus the first organic life began, 

Which found at last its perfect type in man. 

In after times the eldest Mother Earth 

Through peril passed the mighty throes of birth. 

The sea made hostile effort to regain 

The right of empire o'er his old domain. 

The land 'mid battlements of mountains stood : 

A world was in the ruin of the Flood. 

Then spoke those giants whose bright words adorn 



244 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



The dawning page of Mankind's second morn. 

Then came deep darkness, thick, portentous gloom, 

And all the world was shouded for the tomb. 

Could I endure a withering, green decay ? 

Could I behold young glory fade away ? 

I digged as one who digs for shining dross 

To patch his fortunes, worn by worldly loss ; 

I soared as souls might soar to realms of day, 

From blight and darkness in the ^prisoned clay; 

No nook or corner of the visual round, 

But I was there, and vagrant forces found ; 

Yet how to link them to the human car 

Was quite as puzzling as to reach a star. 

I journeyed o'er the desert reach between 

The things that are, and things that once had been 

I stood upon the shores of farthest seas 

Where naught disturbed the tracks of centuries. 

I saw the giants' footprints in the rocks — 

Heard their deep thundering — and felt the shocks. 

Then terror reigned ; and people hurrying fled 

From roofs and timbers crumbling overhead, 

To brave the threatening chasm underneath. 

Where every step disclosed a yawning death. 

Sheer in the gulf I plunged with mad desire 

To sound the sea of subterranean fire. 

The lurid blaze revealed gigantic forms 

With sooty features, and great brawny arms ; 

They wrought in metals hissing in the flume, 



OCCASIONAL. 245 



And sparkling fitful twilight though the gloom. 
The sulphurous fumes, by roaring bellows whirled 
Though mountain chimneys, terrify the world. 
In darkened corners sounding anvils rang, 
And hammers fell with measured clink, clank, 

clang. 
They forged the wares Vulcanic skill invents. 
And moulded ribs and bones of continents. 
Far o'er the level, answering blasts of flame, 
The quickening surge of shadowy pistons came ; 
Huge coaches rushed before the lagging gales 
Across a monster spider's web of rails ; 
Long, rumbling trains, with deafening crash, sped 

nigher. 
Like hissing serpents armed with fangs of fire. 
Then 'neath the mountains dashed with thundering 

sweep 
Through grinning gateways to the darker deep. 
Aloft in murky air, from fields of smoke, 
At intervals the vivid lightnings spoke. 
Without an oar, or sail-propelling breeze, 
Great iron barges plough the fiery seas ; 
Their dripping cargoes unseen power obey. 
Till landed in the deep hills far away. 
Returning, on the tide's subsiding swell. 
They caught some sinking islands as they fell .* 
And all the while the jolly bargemen sang 
In chorus to the anvil's clink, clank, clang, 



246 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Could timid men these stubborn powers o'erwhelm — 

These rugged moulders of the Iron Realm? 

Before the dauntless Iron King I stood, 

Resolved to praise his honest hardihood. 

The softest words the deepest feelings reach. 

And thus I plied the old king with my speech ! 

' O sturdy monarch of this wide domain, 

Hard featured, yet of purest royal strain, 

I come to save a labor-struggling race, 

And look upon their benefactor's face. 

I care not for the shine of sordid gold. 

Whose shallow favors all are bought and sold — 

A peddling vagabond with empty pack 

Who tramps around the same hard beaten track. 

Give me old Iron Honesty and worth, 

And I will garner all the fruits of Earth.' 

The Iron King exultingly replied : 

* My realm is yours and countless wealth beside ; 

All that I have I give — the unpolished ore 

And smelting fire-pools, in exhaustless store, 

To win my artisans, you first must catch, 

And having caught them find the man to match. 

They've served me well, and with me they remain 

Till you can lead them with an iron chain ; 

Else they would hide, and sport in sea and air, 

And ramble here and there and everywhere.' 

I sought the upper world with solemn vow 

To sound the secrets of the deep; but how? 



OCCASIONAL. 247 



I first awoke deep passion for my cause 
To read and comprehend eternal laws. 
I studied men, the soul's abode to scan 
And light the inmost dwelling of the man. 
Great nature in her grandest moods and scenes 
Works wonders by the simplest modes and means. 
A great truth, homeless, ever seeks and finds 
Fond recognition in the plainest minds. 
One wastes a life pursuing shadows fleet 
To find a treasure lying at his feet ; 
The open, artless man of truth in quest 
Proves by results that nearest things are best; 
To great work great simplicity he brings, 
He waves his wand, and forth a giant springs. 
A touch of flame — that spirit fibre bright 
That made the candle — must be there to light. 

"A vessel sails beyond the guardian coast. 
And sorrowing friends mourn all her seamen lost 
Around, above them, nothing seems to be 
But sea and sun — the circling sun and sea. 
The sun by day ; by night a friendly star 
Directs their course, and guides them from afar. 
That vessel has a Giant at the helm — 
The trusty Magnet of the Iron-realm. 

"An apple falls — 'tis worthless, and may rot, 
Yet gives the world a live, majestic thought — 



248 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The bell-tongue struck clear metal of the mind 
And ringing thoughts went out to all mankind. 

"A storm is marching up with banners high, 

And trooping clouds are rattling in the sky ; 

An old man flies a fragile, feathery kite ; 

His key suspended drops a spark of light. 

Most noble thought, and strangely potent key 

To ope the bolted door of mystery ; 

A message from the skies the plaything brought ; 

The cloud-throned Giant Lightning has been caught. 

A sailless ship stands proudly on the wave, 
Nor wanders lost when winds and waters rave ; 
But, driving onward, keeps her destined way. 
Behind her mingle cloud and seething spray. 
A magic movement urged by subtle power, 
With iron harnessed to the day and hour 
Ever and everywhere at man's command. 
His course resistless conquers sea and land. 
In empires' march he leaves no living foes. 
Sprinkling the earth with cities as he goes 
To win of Progress' self the brightest crown ; 
O'erturning hills and digging mountains down. 
Sowing his path with bountiful increase, 
And training nations in the arts of peace. 
Vapor — pure essence of the wave and beam — 
Another giant thou — all-conquering Steam ! 



OCCASIONAL. 249 



A fleeter step is yet upon the sea 

Than Ariel or wing-footed Mercury. 

Beneath the billows' stormy roll and rack. 

Secure it speeds along its winding track. 

The plunging diver swims the ocean now, 

The lightning's halo misty round his brow — 

Not so of old he made his prowess known 

When wheeled by tempests on a cloud-girt throne — 

He whispers instant words from shore to shore. 

And continents embrace forever more. 

" The Thunderer is subdued, who ruled alone 

And hurled his mandates from Olympus' throne. 

The Greeks succumb ; and while their Argus nods. 

We sack the temples of their chosen gods. 

Oh foreign to their mythologic plan 

That Jove should fall — an errand boy to man ! 

All hail ! electric, universal spark, 

Thou torch of dayhght in our being's dark ; 

Pervading all things with transcendent might, 

Pure type of the eternal essence — Light ! 

" Review my record to the present ; know 
My triumphs are the surer that they're slow. 
The systems are my studies — worlds my prize; 
My telescopes are only giant eyes. 
Unnumbered volumes open to your sight 
Tell how each starry orb has come to light. 



250 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

My empire comprehends both star and clod ; 
I show you nature from the hand of God." 

So Science spoke. Her court approval bow, 
And all salute the truth-illumined brow. 
From every quarter come the tidings glad, 
Mankind is saved ; the world is iron-clad. 
The Iron Realm was not a hope deferred — 
The Iron King has nobly kept his word. 
All round as erst the giant's anvils rang. 
Now hear the hammer's music, clink, clank, clang 
Arabian tales — wild fancies dreamed of old — 
Were innocent of lurking truths they told. 
To Haroun, spell-bound on his Orient throne, 
The alphabet of wonder was unknown. 
Aladdin's magic story's marvellous dower 
Stands shamed before a mightier wizard's power. 
A hammer strikes ! The Genii catch the sound, 
And ringing echoes girdle earth around ; 
The Western Magi sacred charms employ. 
And tuneful belfries sing their psalms of joy. 

Great day to grace the records of renown, 
That crowned our progress with an iron crown. 
The prize is won ; our happiest fortune smiles ; 
Our path is open to the Indian isles. 
The triumph latest, greatest, grandest, best, 
Performed the nuptials of the East and West. 



OCCASIONAL. 251 



What have we gained ? What prestige have we more 
Than worlds of people that have gone before ? 
'Twere worthless riches won with years of cost, 
If in a day the treasure might be lost. 
Our progress still this confidence imparts — 
In losing, we shall mourn no more lost arts. 
Among our conquests, be they great or small, 
The Art Preservative o'ertops them all. 





FIELD AND WORK. 



PRESS ASSOCIATION ADDRESS. 



f\} ET us look a little over the field and inspect 

-;^ some of the work done, in view of the best 
economy and possible improvement in what is 
^"^ still to do. 

The field — wide as the world — lies open before 
all eyes ; yet there are people who spend their lives 
and energies hunting for it, and never find it. The 
work is everywhere, bearing the impress of human 
toil and pain, teaching its lessonsof development and 
progress by history and monumental piles, yet there 
are earnest students who never understand it. They 
feel that they are capable of something ; they desire 
to act some part; they see plenty of room ; they 
dream of possibilities, yet they never resolve where 
to go, or what to do. They fail to find the field 
that lies spread before them, and they can not par- 
ticipate in work which they do not comprehend. 
They are so many barren lives. 

In treating our theme — wide as it is — we can only 
hope to drop a few scattered hints and suggestions 
for those who would be productive toilers if they 
could, and save, if possible, some of the human 



OCCASIONAL, 253 



waste, the evidences of which we see around us 
every day. 

When we contemplate the diversity of thought- 
systems, and the variety of civiHzations they have 
built, it is no great marvel that even trained minds 
are often confused and bewildered in regard to the 
special work for which they are best fitted by nature 
and education. They feel an undefined desire to go 
somewhere, and power to do something, but are puz- 
zled as to the where and what ? School culture has 
given them at best only the alphabet of education — 
the key to open the door of a career. It is still a 
question whether they ever learn to read life, or find 
the way of their true future and best fortune. 

In the multiplicity and confusion of aims and 
efforts, motives and methods, systems and opinions, 
doctrines and dogmas, creeds and beliefs, fretting and 
foaming like a whirlpool, they may be dashed into 
the right channel by accident, or they may drift far 
away from hope, 

A few exceptionally strong natures battle with the 
surging tides and force their way to an objective 
point as directly as the needle seeks the magnetic 
pole. They are polarized with the aspirations and 
activity of the people from whom they spring and 
become the instruments of the general thought and 
purpose. They are the inventors, the discoverers, 
the philosophers, the poets, the workers — in a word 
which comprehends all endeavor and achievement — 
they are the world-builders. 

The various great civilizations which girdle the 
globe have carved their lines, engraved their features, 



254 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

and set their types upon the sohd earth, from which, 
if there were no other records, it would be possible 
to print their several histories. They are so posi- 
tively distinct in feature, language and character that 
it is evident upon their faces each developed itself 
independently. 

The best example of independent race develop- 
ment that can be given we find at home in a branch 
of the Aryan race — our own — and a type of the 
Semitic — the Hebrew — living side by side and 
natural aliens. Origin indelibly stamps the Jewish 
clay, and there is no root relationship whatever be- 
tween the Hebrew and any Aryan tongue. The Jew 
is adamant, or he would have been long ago crushed 
and ground to powder between the upper and the 
nether millstones of action and immovability. He is 
primitive rock eternal beneath the strata of ages. 

The Hebrews gave Christendom its religion, which 
must not be confounded with civilization. The mass 
of our culture, and the general character of all Indo- 
Germanic civilization, descended to us from the 
Aryans through the channel of Greece and Rome, 
The literature and art of Athens and Rome are our 
own race products and treasures, while we drew none 
of our aesthetic culture from Jerusalem. Neither our 
civilization nor refinement is higher at this age than 
that of Greece two thousand years ago, which owed 
nothing to a then unborn religion of Semitic origin. 
The Hebrew language, an alien, has had no effect 
whatever upon any of the Indo-Germanic family of 
tongues, and a religion descended from the Jews has 
barely marked or modified a civilization descended 



OCCASIONAL. 255 



from the Aryans. Each race preserves its own 
physical, mental and moral features, and does its 
own world's work. 

Whether or not the several races of men came 
from a common stock, they are widely separated 
now, as if each great continent and the outlying 
islands had been man-producing, certainly as they 
were plant-producing. The general result, as we 
behold it in the peopled belt of the world, is not 
affected by the question whether the human kind, 
and every other animal after his kind, sprang from 
one pair or many sources — wherever the natural 
conditions stimulated their production. 

One race of men taken as a whole has no family 
fraternity or human sympathy with another and the 
lesson of history is that, when the necessity arises or 
occasion comes, the stronger race always hunts down 
and finally exterminates the weaker. Take, for ex- 
ample, the former Indian owners of this wide land. 
What has become of them and their domain ? 

Our civilization killed the savage simply because it 
had use for his home. It was necessary that a New 
World should be discovered and opened as a refuge 
for the teeming populations and the oppressed classes 
of the Old, and our structure of civil and rehgious 
liberty was founded in blood of human sacrifices and 
cost the life of a whole race of men. 

The few descendants of the patriarchal Powhatans 
that remain are penned up in the sunset wilds, in 
process of slow but sure extinction. And in deference 
to a certain compunctious sentimentality this linger- 
ing death to which the last Indian is irrevocably 



256 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

doomed is called humanitarian policy. It is needless 
to instance other conflicts of the stronger with the 
weaker races, as the fate of the aboriginal American 
brings the subject and proof directly home. 

Yet our own boasted enlightenment, which has 
replaced one form of barbarism and savagery, has 
bred and reared as a natural product more cannibals 
than ever swarmed in the terrible islands of the South 
Sea. 

The rich and powerful financial juggler sits in his 
enchanted chair and manipulates stocks with marvel- 
ous sleight-of-hand, disclosing exhaustless golden 
treasure. Charmed by the treacherous glitter the 
beholder is caught. It is a short battle of spider and 
fly, and the cannibalistic Mammon feeds. The desti- 
tution, misery and death that follow are laid to the 
charge of other causes, but the South Sea Islander 
of good society has had his human feast. 

Even merchants of great respectability and high 
standing are not averse to " getting up corners " on 
honest produce, coaxing their friends in and " squeez- 
ing them out," as it is called in commercial parlance. 
But they swallow them as easily and innocently as 
they would an oyster. A fish that devours its kind 
may get enough of it, but the appetite of the human 
shark is never sated. There are laws against petty 
gambling and small swindling schemes, but what law 
can ever reach the princely speculator, who plays his 
own cards to win, when commercial courtesy calls it 
a legitimate game ? 

So the strong, both as nations and individuals, prey 
upon the weak — Jew and Gentile, Christian and pa- 



OCCASIONAL. 257 



gan, civilized and savage — the whole world over. 
The methods simply vary according to the different 
constitutions and appetites of the people. Might is 
made right in fact and effect, if not so held in 
theory. 

Mankind are but men — no matter how much, or 
how little civilization they have taken on, or what the 
character of the culture. No matter how smooth and 
fair the outside may be, the savage lurks under a very 
thin crust of veneer and shine of varnish, and is 
quickly reached and roused when pierced by provo- 
cation. Thus crude human nature sticks to the most 
modern improvements in humanity, and if anybody 
doubts it let him look into himself and see. 

Even the judiciary — the highest expression of 
civil enlightenment, and, in theory, exempt from the 
warp of passion, prejudice or interest — has in many 
lands laid itself open to suspicion upon great ques- 
tions involving possessions, aggrandizement and 
power. There is an old reproach that every man has 
his price, and abundant past experience has gone to 
prove it true. 

It may not be always in coin or emolument, but 
there is some way to that weakness which, when 
touched and wakened, is uncontrollable strength and 
asserts the supremacy of human nature in human 
affairs. Judges can not be debarred from having hu- 
man passions, holding political opinions, and belong- 
ing to party; yet the office which weighs evidence 
and administers law should be held forever free from 
the taint of party and color of partisanship. But 
judges make history, and when parties and condi- 



258 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

tions have passed away their record stands for the 
criticism and judgment of the future. 

We have been speaking of a human nature as 
fundamental and paramount, above moral and intel- 
lectual culture and all the cultivated sentiments, when 
brought to bay and driven to the test, and thisbrings 
us to the consideration of the natural man as ever the 
predominant element in the human being. Let us 
look the facts squarely in the face and judge things 
simply as we see and know them. 

Man deserves more credit than he has ever got, or 
is ever likely to get, for what he has made of himself 
from the raw material. In his mighty work of im- 
provement which has not merely remodelled and re- 
plenished, but re-created the earth, he is saddled 
with, and patiently bears, all the blame of wickedness 
and evil, and receives no credit for good. The model 
balance-sheet of life, as held up before him from in- 
fancy, does not look like a fair estimate and account. 
He is nothing, he can know nothing, he can do nothing. 
Life is nothing ; yet he is charged with duties and 
burdened with debts which he can not pay, and then 
a balance is struck with the unknown quantity of a 
hereafter. It is a most pathetic page — that balance- 
sheet of life — all ciphers, except the great debt, and 
how far man has been responsible for this one- 
sided computation of accounts against himself can 
never be known. 

The accident of clo-thes and the physical results of 
their unnatural condition ; the faculty of speech — 
not the gift of language, which is as clearly a human 
invention as a steam engine ; the capacity to transmit 



OCCASIONAL. 259 



knowledge, and the power of self-improvement, 
doubtlessly caused him to make a wide distinction 
between himself and other orders of the animal 
kingdom. He tried to cut himself loose from 
the harmonious system of animated nature, ignored 
or destroyed, as the stronger rival annihilates 
the weaker, his nearest brute conditions or rela- 
tions, if you will, and the " missing link " is hard 
to find. 

After having done so much and isolated his type 
unconsciously, came the very natural desire to ac- 
count for himself, fathom his origin and solve the 
problem of his destiny. The mute inquiry of the 
Egyptian Sphinx is the riddle of the world — still 
unanswered — while the enigmatical appealing face 
looks over desert sands and thunders stony silence 
down the centuries. What are termed the inspired 
writings deal with this problem, but there are many 
" holy books " of antiquity widely differing in matter 
and statement, each one of which satisfies only small 
fractions of mankind with its solution. 

Among them are the Buddha gospels of Sakamuni, 
the Moral Philosophy of Confucius, the Vedas of the 
Indian Brahma, the Zend Avesta of the Fire Wor- 
shippers, the Laws of Moses, the historical and de- 
votional epics of the Hebrew Prophets, the Songs of 
David, the Wisdom of Solomon, the words of Jesus, 
the epistles of Paul and the Koran of Mahomet. 
These furnish the ground-work for a multitude of 
moral codes and religions, and are the special heri- 
tage of theology. They gave rise to various systems 
of human worship of superior beings and symbols 



260 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

of power conceived to be above, before and after 
the world. 

Theology has its formulated dogmas, principles 
and creeds, colleges, students and professors; is 
taught like a science and held up as eternal truth. 
It embraces and promulgates the doctrines of the 
spiritual and supernatural. Its field is the unseen. 
Many regard it as the unknown — beyond the bounds 
of space and time. Its work is not of the world and 
its product, the revealed religion of one people or 
sect, is rank superstition to another; theology or 
mythology according to creed. 

Physical science digs in the earth for its treasures 
of truth and explores the heavens for the key to 
unlock the mysteries of infinitude. It reads the 
records on the rocks, resurrects buried worlds, 
breathes the warmth of life into prehistoric bones, 
and soars to the sun for light on the problem of the 
evolution, magnitude, composition and constitution 
of the systems. 

Thus physical science has dragged out of the earth 
and drawn from the stars masses of facts upon which 
it has built its theories of the age, beginning and 
development of things. It is found that theology and 
geology, for instance, do not agree either upon facts 
or deductions, and their ancient variance has espe- 
cially stimulated the best mental efforts of this won- 
derfully working and coldly critical age. 

The conflict between physical science and spiritual 
theology is the absorbing business and theme of 
thought and persistent topic of our time, and most 
of us have taken sides. The antagonism is often 



OCCASIONAL. 261 



styled Science vs. Religion, which is not a correct 
statement of the contest, because man is a worship- 
ing animal, and all men have a religion. 

The religious sentiment is universal, and man must 
worship something. If he has no revelation of a God, 
he makes one of gold or brass, or stone, or wood, 
or himself. The professors of theology and geology 
are free to settle their incongruities and differences 
among themselves. They are equally able to sift 
and take care of truth, and that is what both sets of 
professors profess to desire, and we of the secular 
press have only to record the results as they come. 
The great controversy in one shape and another is 
already a four or five thousand years' war, has slain 
its millions upon millions of men, and the probability 
is we shall not see the covenant of peace on earth 
signed and sealed. Meanwhile the mingled shouts 
of the devotee, the wails of woe and the shrieks of 
torture fly upward as sparks and smoke from beneath 
the wheels of Juggernaut as they roll and rumble 
round all the world. 

These mysteries of cause and consequence and 
human responsibility to supernal power, while they 
chiefly involve matters not of this world, have wielded 
more influence in the affairs of man than all the 
demonstrated facts with which humanity has had to 
deal. If man believes in gods above him, he is sure 
to frame laws above him, that is, laws which are su- 
perior to the moral sense of the people they are 
meant to govern. Such laws, though made by rep- 
resentatives, are not representative. They are there- 
fore inoperative shams of a moral standard that 



262 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

does not exist. They were enacted in fear, and from 
a superficial sentiment of duty — a yoke which has 
made a large portion of mankind voluntary slaves. 

All acts ought to be works of love, warm with 
heart devotion, and then duty would have nothing to 
do. The language of the highest culture that it may 
be possible to build would have no use for the word 
duty in its vocabulary. All its work would be done 
for love, because the workers could not help the 
doing of it. Duty in such a state of society would 
appear like a cripple hobbling along at the tail of a 
vast procession begging alms. The moralists some- 
times begin at the wrong end of the lesson to 
teach. 

We owe no duty of thanks for the good things 
that grow for us to eat. Human food was before the 
human race, and without it in its natural shape the 
type would have been impossible. It is physically 
responsible for the human being and must take care 
of him. He grows up by it and it builds his body 
what it is. Rivers are not made to run past cities 
for the benefits of necessary commerce. The city 
was founded because the river was there ready run- 
ning, and the water power aided its growth. But the 
masses of men have bowed their necks to a few 
tyrants, and the tyrants are inexorable in enforcing 
a moral obligation of duty, which makes every con- 
scientious man a coward — afraid his neighbor will 
discover that he is not good as he pretends to be. 

This is the situation that the sentiment of duty, 
with no quality or impulse of love in it, has forced 
upon society. Let any man examine his own moral 



OCCASIONAL. 



26' 



condition and his relations to a circle of friends, 
under the laws made to govern him, and he will be 
satisfied of the fact. Make Duty the loyal hand- 
maid of Love, and not the imperious, exacting mas- 
ter, and all will be well. 

By examination of what are called " holy books " 
of all the races it will be found that, at least so far 
as this earth is concerned, they reveal nothing be- 
yond the bounds of the human knowledge of the 
times that gave them birth, or above the intelligence 
and enlightenment of the people. They are the 
crystallized wisdom of the mental and moral systems 
whence they sprang. 

Man has had to fight his way up the craggy steps of 
Time and make his points and stages of progress by 
hard knocks. He has waged a constant warfare with 
the savage within himself, and the barbarian often 
got the better of him. He has built, torn down, and 
rebuilt systems innumerable. He has demolished 
gods and demons of his own imagination that inter- 
cepted every step of his onward course. In his ig- 
norance he has slain his own prophets. He has been 
driven back to new beginnings. His accepted deities 
armed with conservative traditions and guarded by 
sacred battahons have ever opposed his progress, and 
against all these barriers, disadvantages and disasters 
he has gone on conquering and to conquer the 
legions and domains of savage nature. " Inspired 
writings " never taught him how to build a house, 
sail a ship, or make a telescope. They treat of 
higher and unseen things, and solely promote spirit- 
ual elevation — set above the plane of the mere 



264 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

mental and moral, which latter have to do chiefly 
with physical facts. 

Now all that man positively knows of himself is 
that he is a physical fact. All his progress has been 
iconoclastic. Whenever he has diverged from the 
beaten track of his times he has found a god, or the 
representative of a god, in the way to forbid his ad- 
vance, and the course of Reason's empire is thickly 
strewn with broken idols. After they are demol- 
ished and passed we look back with sympathetic pity 
on so many once regarded and respected deities de- 
throned and shattered. Their lingering, mourning 
worshippers have at least won the glory of persecut- 
ing to death the philosophers and reformers who 
pointed out the new ways and the new life to the 
world. They lived and died for men ; their graves 
are on their battle-fields and their creations are their 
monuments. The truths they discovered and for 
which they suffered are adopted and taught in the 
schools that condemned them as heretical, and this 
records their everlasting triumph. 

To us now the hovering gods of Olympus, direct- 
ing the battles of the ancient Greeks, and the pious 
praying a threatening comet out of modern Europe 
are all the same. The Greeks won their victories 
and transmitted the benefits, and the comet disap- 
peared without fiery collision with Christendom. 

All men are believers in the efficacy of prayer 
of some kind and in some way. There is at least 
one form of prayer in which all nations and kindreds 
and peoples and tongues can join — work, — the work 
of world-building, the work of charity and brother- 



OCCASIONAL. 265 



hood, the work of man for man. This universal 
prayer of the human race, notwithstanding all the 
impediments in its utterance, has been abundantly 
answered. 

The electric telegraph is the answer of the prayer 
for speed ; the steam engine is the answer of the 
prayer for power ; our great republic is the answer 
of the prayer for freedom ; the printing press and 
free school are answers to solemn prayers for light 
and universal education. Work is prayer — work 
of hands, brains, and heart ; work for love of work, 
and not simply to supply the necessities of life ; the 
ants and the beavers and the bees do as much. 

What shall we do ? First, cultivate the general 
principle of individual human responsibility and ele- 
vate man to a truer estimate of himself, his work and 
his mission on earth. The human mind is micro- 
scopic rather than telescopic. 

More positive and exact knowledge, and more 
practical discoveries have been gained under the 
microscope than through the telescope. The micro- 
scope is a dissector and an analyzer. The telescope 
is in some sense a speculator and dreamer. 

The former essentially belongs to earth, the latter 
to the illimitable, unfathomable and incomprehen- 
sible heavens. The discovery of the law of gravita- 
tion was microscopic in its nature, and will serve to 
illustrate the general principle. The discoverer was 
looking down, then, not up, and the instrument is 
said to have been so common a thing as an apple. 
With our mortal eyes we never find a jewel except 
by looking at the earth and things earthy. To feel 



266 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

our way safely in the dark we naturally grasp what 
is nearest to us, and so strive to reach the light. 
That method is the way to all discoveries, and the 
rule of successful lives. 

Many people despise familiar things as small or 
common, forgetting that it is only through intelligent 
observation and attention to little things that great 
works are done. They look up and far away where 
there is no landing-place for the eye — lost in cloud- 
lands — and neglect things near at hand, and possible 
treasures at their feet. They wait for the inspiration 
of genius, which never comes, for genius itself is a 
worker, and produces nothing except by toil and 
suffering. Every birth involves agony. 

Let the young seize opportunity at once, wherever 
there is a vacant place to lay hold of honest work, 
and soon a career will seize them and labor will be 
transfigured into interest and crowned by achieve- 
ment. The true starting point is not what one had 
best do, but what one can do best. 

A man knows whether he can write a good hand ; 
whether he is quick at figures ; whether he has the 
knack of mechanism, or the feehng of art, or whether 
he has wealth of ideas and a flow of language to 
make a torrent of eloquence. A little thought in 
this direction at the beginning might save many a 
life-mistake and greatly reduce if not entirely pre- 
vent what we have termed human waste. Two 
stumbhng-blocks are often fatal at the very start — 
shame of confessing ignorance by asking informa- 
tion, and throwing away one's own talents and 
power to be somebody by misusing them to develop 



OCCASIONAL. 267 



one's self into somebody else. Thus a burden of 
ignorance is taken up for life, and men are not 
themselves. People, good for something, get into 
the wrong places, and are good for nothing. They 
do no part of the world's work. 

Journalism is well acquainted with these good 
people in the wrong places, for it is the province 
of the Argus-eyed press to note incompetency and 
other public abuses wherever they appear, while it 
has also its own burdens of this character to bear. 

To get into the other professions, some sort of 
special schooling and training, and a proof of fitness 
are prerequisite ; but it seems every one thinks 
that he is a born journalist, and can write for the 
papers. He fails as a lawyer, or a doctor, or a cler- 
gyman, or in any other profession or calling, and, as 
a forlorn hope, it occurs to him that he must be a 
newspaper man. 

The peculiar institutions and rapid development 
of this country have made it possible for a great 
many people to get into the wrong places, but 
experiments — both successes and failures — have 
made equally valuable discoveries. 

In the Old World men are born and bred in the 
stations and professions of their fathers, and it is 
very difficult for them to get cut out of the ancestral 
grooves. In the New they may rise from the slums 
to the highest places, which possibility offers a stand- 
ing premium for men to do their best. 

Time was when man carved his records on stone 
and built towers for the preservation of the knowl- 
edge he had gained and the civilization he had 



268 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

wrought. The writing was rubbed out, and the 
towers crumbled and fell. 

When books came, the accumulated knowledge 
was stored in one great library, and the torch that 
fired it burned the world, which was long crawling 
out of its own ashes, and suffered loss irreparable. 
The printing-press has made such another destruc- 
tion and loss impossible, for it pours its treasures 
of thought into thousands of libraries and millions of 
homes. The printing-press stands in the breach 
of danger, a mighty power — a creator — creating a 
new world every day and every hour in the day, 
while the sun — its celestial symbol — makes his all- 
beholding rounds. 

Let us maintain and strive to elevate the dignity 
of our profession and truly appreciate our responsi- 
bilities, both as builders and defenders, using facts 
instead of misrepresentation, and argument and logic 
instead of abuse and invective, to fight our battles 
for human rights and liberties and the disenthral- 
ment of mankind. 

Of this let all be sure : The greatest fortune a 
man can inherit or win is the ability to find the 
proper field for his energies and talents ; and there 
is nothing permanently valuable in this world that 
we live in but the work we do. 





THE DRAMA — A RESPONSE. 



SHALL endeavor to speak for the drama, to 
which work your generous partiality has called 
me. 

"^^ When you say that the drama is " the heart 
of literature and the concentration of all literary 
thought," you utter a sentiment which is peculiarly 
comprehensive and just. You hit the nail of fact 
squarely on the head and drive it home, and there 
seems to be nothing further to say, and no use in 
making any more noise about it. But every fact 
holds its inherent reasons, and the action of this 
great literary heart — the drama — must have its 
philosophy. We shall see. 

When a system, or a science, or a branch of liter- 
ature is accredited by the whole civilized world, the 
universal recognition implies a harmony, or a truth, 
or a well-spring of thought congenital with humanity 
itself. Let us consider the drama as such a branch 
of literature, and penetrate, if we can, the secret of 
its power over people. For our present purpose, 
the stages of intellectual advance from the starting- 
point of social communion may be ranked, first, 
oratory ; next, the drama ; then the epic song 
which bears historic fruit; and, last and highest, 
philosophy. 



2/0 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The drama had its origin among the very roots 
of language and spread its growth through all 
tongues. Children's plays were the first plays, and 
the children are playing them still. It is natural 
that the early tricklings of thought, after long wind- 
ing through the mazes of tradition, and taking the 
character of accumulated knowedge on the way, 
should first find permanent expression in recorded 
conversations. This suggested the drama. The 
clash of mind against mind, heart against heart, 
soul against soul, in living dialogue strikes passion's 
fire for the crucible of truth. The antagonisms 
of sentiments and opinions and interests in the 
dramatic situation are the flint and steel of that 
Promethian spark which lights and warms the 
world. This is the drama — a crystallization of 
knowledge gained and wisdom attained, and its 
structure preserves the elements of oratory which 
preceded it. 

So the drama has seized upon and fashioned to 
its purpose the treasures of legendary lore, epic 
heroics, historic fields and figures, philosophic, so- 
cial, moral and even sacred themes; in fact, many 
of the holy books themselves are written in the 
dramatic style. It has thus linked itself to all the 
uses of language in the communication and trans- 
mission of thought, pervading all with its essence 
and its life. So it has grown up through all the 
stages and phases of human aspiration, and effort, 
and inquiry, and discovery, winding its sinewy coils 
through and around the vast riches of mentality with 
a proprietary right. 



OCCASIONAL. 271 



Its hunger for subjects is insatiable, and its ca- 
pacity to digest and mould them into its own art- 
forms is illimitable, embracing as it does in its scope 
of forces and effects all grades of intelligence, from 
brutish instinct to godlike reason. It gathers its 
materials all along the pathway of man, and trans- 
mutes all metals of motive and grains of thought 
into its own gold. It stoops to the lullabies of 
Mother Goose, and it rises to the songs of the 
prophets. It plays every strain of human passion, 
in every condition of human life ; and it soars among 
the stars and grasps the loftier themes of science, 
philosophy and religion. Its dominion is universal 
and its daring is sublime. 

Say what may be said — and there is a great deal 
of empty talk about the decline of the drama — it 
never has failed or faltered in strength of grasp, nor 
has it retrograded a single step. It is fully abreast 
with Time, and leads the van in the march of mind. 
Its very nature is development, and its movement 
progress. We have the proof of this imbedded in 
our own language — solid rock. For example, the 
epic is accounted the higher form of expression. 
The absence of the Iliad would certainly make a 
greater blank than the blotting out of the Pro- 
metheus, but the world of to-day could better spare 
Paradise Lost than Hamlet. The one is read by a 
few scattered students, the other is recited by a 
grand chorus of civilized man that rings 'round the 
globe. Here, then, in our own tongue, in modern 
days, the drama has foiight the battle for precedence 
with the epic, and has won. 



2/2 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Strongly seated as it is in the thought, the move- 
ment and affection of mankind, it is easy to discover 
the secret of the drama's power. It is the human 
ingredient in it that gives it the full height, breadth 
and depth of humanity itself. Man ivill sympathize 
with human nature, and not all the theories and 
philosophies ever invented can lead him from his 
kind, or cure him of human habits. Where his inter- 
ests and sympathies are, there he will be in the 
majesty and supremacy of heart. Lying close to 
the heart are liberty, enlightenment and progress — 
involving in their development and fruition suffering 
and happiness, vice and virtue, error and truth, de- 
feat and victory; the drama comprehends them all, 
and arrays an*d wields their forces in the manly 
struggle for greater good. 

Look at the drama as a universal educator. It 
has had the richest wealth of time and toil and mind 
of all ages poured into it to bear interest forever. 
Shakespeare, its grandest exemplar — all nature's 
heart and brain — still at the end of three hundred 
years tops the intellect of the world. From such a 
height, his view of the drama and the actor's art will 
be accepted as clear and sound. He did not say, as 
many suppose he did, that the office of acting is to 
hold the mirror up to nature, but "to hold, as 'twere, 
the mirror up to nature ; " apparently a very small 
distinction, which makes a very great difference. 
Severe nature, a bald copy, would be tiresomely 
stupid \v\. presentation. It has been tried, and the 
flat reahsm failed. It is the ideal and not the real 
that is the true in art. It is the type and not the 



OCCASIONAL. 273 



individual — humanity and not men that the drama 
personifies. The dramatist does not pick up the 
common man and woman, but selects the excep- 
tional growth and development of man out of the 
masses for models of character, and they are true in 
the art perspective of the stage — just as the statue 
of heroic proportions is toned to nature at the height 
of its pedestal. These figures pass into the conscious- 
ness of the people as models of virtue and heroism to 
imitate, or monsters of vice to shun. Such concep- 
tions and embodiments become electrified with the 
life of real historic persons, and live and act with 
the force of historical figures. The realest and livest 
man in Switzerland is William Tell, and yet he 
was conceived in the brain of Goethe, who delivered 
the embyro hero over to Schiller, who brought him 
among men for their admiration and advancement. 
And Tell is the towering Alpine type. So of other 
dramatic heroes. Thus the drama gives us the 
higher models for the general education. They are 
always above the class from which they spring, and 
to which they appeal, inviting to a higher plane 
of intellectual culture and aesthetic enjoyment. The 
vicious man, sitting at the worst play, can not see or 
hear anything so rank as his own vice. He is first 
caught when nothing else could catch him, and 
then led up and educated ; and, taking even this 
low grade of entertainment, he is in better company 
and surroundings than he would have been if he 
had not gone to the playhouse, and he will come 
away so much the better man. He is lured through 
his own low instincts, if you will, but he is imme- 



2/4 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

diately elevated in thought and sympathy to the 
higher level of the mimic scene, and awakening 
reason's transformation makes him man. 

The man who can not read goes to the play, and 
sees pictures of beauty and hears lessons of history, 
heroism, morality, virtue — life. And he is educated. 
Into the same company come the cultured student, 
the man of letters, the learned professor and the 
sage philosopher, and they are educated too, for the 
magic of the drama discloses to their higher under- 
standing a still higher ideal of possible being. Thus, 
the drama educates the ignorant^ educates the edu- 
cated and educates the educator in that vast temple 
where the dramatic trinity, Melpomene, Thalia and 
Euterpe, minister at their high altar of rational 
entertain.ment and universal enlightenment. With 
this spectacle of man at his congenial, intellectual 
pastime and happiest mood, in plain view the world 
over, who shall say that the drama is not a uni- 
versal educator ? 

Of what is known as the modern society sensation, 
which we all know so well, little need be said par- 
ticularly. Much of it is not legitimate, either in 
subject or treatment, and does not come properly 
within our scope, except so far as its grade and 
range of benefits have already been indicated. It 
comes from the hunger of the genius of the drama, 
and is another proof of its unbounded capacity to 
grasp all subjects, compass and comprehend all 
thought and take the great round world in its arms. 

The drama speaks all tongues and is equally at 
home in all. Its English is the crowning triumph 



OCCASIONAL. 275 



of human utterance, and brings all the kingdoms 
of thought under the universal reign of Shakespeare. 
The beautiful green island, first in the hearts of all 
her sons wherever dispersed, yielded a joyful allegi- 
ance to the Enghsh monarch of mind, and strength- 
ened and glorified his eternal empire with a Sheridan 
and a Knowles and a Shiel — proud names in the 
annals of literature and bright gems in Ireland's 
crown. 

To bring the subject home, the American drama 
is an unsolved problem. The first American drama 
worthy of the designation has yet to be written. 
Many American subjects have been treated in the 
dramatic style, but the results have not risen to 
the dignity of a distinct American type in dramatic 
literature. 

American harvesters have been busy in this field, 
but their scanty gleanings have been swallowed up 
by current consumption. They have established no 
world's granary and have saved no grain for seed. 
Our artists, both authors and actors, have found and 
portrayed the excrescences of American character, 
but they have no frames or places for their pictures 
because they have constructed no drama. American 
authors have done nobly with foreign subjects, but 
the tone and treatment have been purely Enghsh. 
They have drunk inspiration at the fountain of 
Shakespeare, which exhausts all the English springs. 
They feel the dramatic impulse, but they have not 
learned the secret of conception or struck the key 
of expression. There is somewhere a new way to 
an undiscovered mine. The conditions in the New 



2/6 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

World are so different from those of the Old that 
they will not permit the same treatment. Premising 
a correspondence here that does not exist, is just 
where a long succession of errors and failures be- 
gins. Dramas are built of the bones and sinews 
and all the tangible materials and productive forces 
of human society, and breathed full of its living 
soul. The friction of the classes — always at war 
with each other — coming in sharp contact and col- 
lision, yet never mixing, generates the heat of dra- 
matic action. Where the classes are in rough-shod 
antagonism, the conflicting elements and interests 
point the dramatic way. Now, there is only one 
grade of society in republican America which is 
no society at all in the sense of class. No man is 
anchored to the condition of caste. Any man may 
rise from the lowest condition to the highest posi- 
tion. The old society lines are therefore broken, 
and the promiscuous mingling of masses makes no 
sufficient fermentation for the wine of dramatic 
frenzy. In such conditions the drama becomes a 
lost art. Who shall discover the way to the Amer- 
ican mine and develop its riches ? Who shall find 
the true secret of conception and strike the key of 
expression ? Who shall build the American drama ? 
A few words about the moral and religious oppo- 
sition to the drama, which now and then breaks out 
with turbulence. It is for the high moralists, the 
clergy and the churches to consider and ponder well 
how they can be of the most benefit to man, for 
whose good they work. Would they be leaders or 
drivers? kind counsellors or inexorable judges? 



OCCASIONAL. 277 



Men are led better than they are driven — much 
better* — and they take more kindly to sweet coun- 
sel than to dogmatic judgment. They must have 
amusement and recreation to compensate for the 
grind of toil, and rebuild exhausted energy. The 
need is imperious. Where are they to get this life 
compensation ? The stage is everywhere, and the 
drama is a mighty mother with arms for all. She 
only can meet the universal demand. An enlight- 
ened English clergyman has nobly said : " The 
stage is the apotheosis of our nature, and the trans- 
figuration of our daily life." This is spoken of it in 
its purity, and in view of its grandest purpose, and 
it is true. We have it. Shall we make the best 
of it ? An institution that will bear this encomium 
is worthy of the best influence and best work of the 
best men. It has stimulated and yielded, and it 
holds in its everlasting and exclusive possession the 
richest and most abundant coinage of the human 
brain. Its thought is woven in the very fabric and 
organism of mind. No one can speak a cultivated 
tongue without quoting its master's dramas. Shall 
we guard the dramatic treasure with the strongest 
fortress of our civilization, or abandon it to unbridled 
license and plunder? Shall we cherish and cultivate 
it as a garden of the richest flowers and fruits, or 
permit it to grow up with rank weeds? For it can 
not be trodden down and stamped out — deep-rooted 
as it is and strong in luxurious growth. Then it 
is for the teachers to determine whether they can 
better exercise their high office and perform the 
greater good by thundering the artillery of their 



2/8 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



opposition against the drama's temples, or by recog- 
nizing and encouraging their legitimate uses, and 
giving their influence to make the stage most 
worthy its mission of ministering to man. One 
thing is certain, the drama began with man, and it 
is going to see him through to the end. The heart 
out, life is done. While it beats — 

"Fame, heaven and hell are its exalted theme, 
And visions such as Jove himself might dream." 




EDUCATIONAL. 



NORMAL SCHOOL DEDICATION. 




I. 

ET us contemplate the magnitude of this work 
^ and the responsibilities it involves. Let us en- 
deavor to appreciate its full meaning and pur- 
pose ; let us invoke to our aid its mighty spirit 
now hovering over us with brooding wings and 
gracing our assemblage with its life-giving presence. 
The work of a teacher is at the foundation of all 
the professions, and in the highest sphere of its mis- 
sion the profession of a teacher stands at the head 
of them all. It is the first in order, the first in 
importance, and the grandest in its ultimate ex- 
pression. It lays the base and crowns the column 
with the capital in all the orders of mental architec- 
ture. To use another figure, it is the true husband- 
man of culture. It prepares the soil, sows the seed, 
gathers the harvest, and garners the golden grain. 

We have formally laid the corner-stone of an edu- 
cational edifice, and the edifice itself is the corner- 
stone of a vast educational system. This view, and 
it is the true one, a hundredfold magnifies the impor- 



280 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

tance of the work here begun. A school is founded 
for the culture and training of teachers, whose high 
office is to mould the characters of the young men 
and young women of the State, upon whom the 
State's weighty responsibilities are soon to fall. 

It is one thing to know ; another to teach. A 
scholar may be graduated by any of the celebrated 
chartered and endowed institutions of learning with 
the highest honors and yet not know the alphabet of 
teaching. Teaching is a science in itself and is so 
recognized and treated by our pubhc school system. 
Graduates of universities generally enter what are 
termed the " learned professions " or drift into afflu- 
ence, ease and obscurity ; but comparatively few of 
them ever become school teachers. 

Whence, then, are the teachers to come to meet the 
pressing throngs of humanity on the threshold of 
active life ? They must be made. Teaching must 
be taught. The province of a normal school is to 
teach to teach. From the nature of its work, its 
course and method must be peculiarly its own. 

High schools, seminaries and colleges educate 
men and women for the general business of life. 
The normal school qualifies them for the profession 
of an instructor. It is the indispensable ground- 
work of the whole superstructure of the public school 
system, as it is extending itself over our broad land, 
and is of the first necessity to its efficacy and con- 
tinued prosperity. 

Great genius and great learning are cosmopolitan. 
Wherever they appear they are the common prop- 
erty of man ; but the system of education in one 



EDUCATIONAL. 28 1 



country is not entirely adapted to the needs of an- 
other. Neither does the method of one age chime 
with the activity of another. The world now moves 
with railroad speed, and is electrified by the tele- 
graph. Stage coaches and post-boys have passed 
away. Education must still lead, not follow the busy 
throngs of life. 

Every people must discover for themselves the 
most congenial means for their development, and 
those who find the natural sphere of their activity 
quickest and move within it strongest and bravest, 
achieve the highest stage of civilization. 

Civilization works by laws almost as immutable 
as those of nature herself. The desperadoes and 
outcasts of society, if they escape its vengeance, 
finally throw themselves into the wilderness and 
find their level battling with wild beasts and 
savage men. This warfare results in a benefi- 
cial mutual extermination. Then the frontiersman 
comes with his wagon and his axe, and his plow, 
and his gun, and his dog, perhaps his wife, and 
smooths the more rugged features of nature, and 
dresses her in her work-day clothes. His labor 
is improved by little communities that follow in 
his track. They become fast settlers, and culti- 
vate fruits and flowers and embellish their homes 
with various signs an^ hints of beauty. Lastly 
comes education, and builds school-houses, and 
founds libraries, and finishes the work ; thus crown- 
ing with mental culture the labors of all who 
have been before. We are in this interesting stage 
of civilization, and are now engaged not in crown- 



282 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

ing the king, but in laying the foundation of an 
expanding kingdom. 

Knowledge is essentially aggressive. It is always 
at war with something opposed to its dissemination. 
It fearlessly attacks error and pretension wherever it 
can find them. It does not wait for its natural ene- 
mies to stumble against it; but it goes forth armed 
to meet or chase its foes. There is never any doubt 
which will finally be the victor. 

In many countries of the Old World education has 
been chiefly directed to the maintenance and expan- 
sion of nationality, the development of war power, 
and the aggrandizement of empire. Its principal 
stimulant, and at the same time its worst enemy, was 
jealousy of neighbors. It was thus often turned into 
a channel in which the obstructions it met impeded 
the solution of its own destiny. But it never ceased 
striving for the cause which its votaries had most at 
heart, and it never failed to triumph. 

In America we have a far different field to culti- 
vate, and widely divergent objects to accomplish by 
education. We have to construct a harmonious 
nationality out of apparently discordant materials. 
We have all the territory we could ask, or can want : 
our prime object should be to settle and develop it ; 
and we have no quarrelsome neighbors with whom 
to fight, or of whom to be jealous. 

Among modern nations our position is in many 
respects anomalous, and our leading activity must 
spring directly from our instincts, and grow out of 
the necessities of the situation. 

America is the lap into which are continually pour- 



EDUCATIONAL. 283 



ing all the treasures of the earth, both in products 
and peoples. Numerous nationalities which for ages 
have cherished little animosities, strong antipathies, 
even rank hatred against each other at home, land 
on our shores to mingle into one, and that one a 
sovereign. 

It is the province of our system of education to 
take hold of these heterogeneous elements and in- 
herited antagonisms and mould them into one homo- 
geneous and symmetrical whole. 

The education of America has still to contend 
against its foes, not with the sword, but under its 
more congenial banner of peace, and with the sharper 
brand of reason. It has to fight prejudice — that 
corroding rust which eats up the substance of the 
best material — and keep the machinery of society 
lubricated and bright. It has to make bosom friends 
of natural enemies by placing them side by side on 
the same elevation of culture and economy, stimu- 
lating their aspirations and providing a common work 
for their hands and brains to do. 

There are also among us " native and to the 
manner born " prejudices against foreign immigra- 
tion. These must be overcome and eradicated. 
Education can and will do the work, and no means 
can be devised which promises such lasting results in 
this direction as a system of public instruction where 
the young of all nationalities are taught and trained 
together. The plastic characters of children become 
fitted and attached to each other by a community 
of pursuits in the school-room. It is a species of 
Freemasonry sacred to the fairy-land of childhood — 



284 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

illumined by the sunshine of innocence and joy, 
and eloquent with the merry voice of laughter, the 
memory of which will last as long as they live. 

Last of all, we have lingering prejudices to fight 
at home. There is no more North and South. 
That geographical barrier was swept away in blood. 
But there is, in the sense of sectional rivalry, an 
East and a West, as different in character as if an 
ocean rolled between. 

However much we may laugh at or denounce 
what we are pleased to call " Yankee notions " — 
and we of the West generally have strong feelings 
against them — we are compelled to acknowledge 
the broad fact that New England has educated and 
is still educating America. 

"Knowledge is power" — it is the only republican 
aristocrat — it is an imperial autocrat wherever it 
has its seat, and it sways the American mind from 
the rock-built throne of the Pilgrims. The spirit 
of the Mayflower yet walks the waters, and is around 
guiding the direction of almost every movement on 
land. Its characteristic instincts were sharpened 
by persecution and penury, and the corresponding 
intellect was whetted by necessity. This class of 
mind is sure to cut wherever it strikes, and it strikes 
everywhere, making deep incisions for its intended 
cures. 

Let us forgive its foibles, whatever they may be. 
It is a strong character. It is at heart a good spirit 
and worthy of being acclimated to the West. It 
will lead us to the " green pastures " of knowledge 
and by the "still waters" of wisdom — amid such 



EDUCATIONAL. 285 



pastures and such waters as can be found nowhere 
else in the world, and they are all our own. 

The keen edge of Eastern culture welded to the 
broad growth of the West forms a wedge which will 
split wide open the toughest problematical knot 
under the sun. 

The " Yankees," as they are proud to be called, 
early seized upon the idea, or the idea seized upon 
them, that education was the corner-stone of a great 
nation, and they laid it — the principal element in 
the development of a country, and the best weapon 
for its defence — and they tried it. Having resolved 
upon the means, they went to work with all their 
might. Their method, so far as tested, has been 
proved effective, and their ability to pursue it is 
unquestioned. We are simply adapting their patent 
to the wants of the West, and ought to give them 
due credit for the invention. 

In the mode of applying it and in the results to 
be attained we hope in time to be able to give les- 
sons to our New England schoolmasters. 

It is but natural that a little ill-temper should be 
mingled with a great deal of reverence for the 
master of a school, if he be a good one, but when 
the scholars turn the tables — multiplication tables — 
as we expect to do when we get hold of the balance 
of power, and there is no help for it, our severe old 
Dominie will be the first to elevate his familiar 
spectacles and congratulate us on our astonishing 
progress, and the wonderfully beneficial effects 
of the castigations he had given us when we were 
boys. 



286 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Society has been engaged on the problems of pov- 
erty and crime in all time past, and doubtless will be 
for all time to come. Philanthropy has wrestled 
with the question as Jacob wrestled for the blessing. 
It has pointed out the ladder of ascent, the principal 
rounds of which are Faith, Hope and Charity. But 
these symbols require culture to understand; the 
beginning is too high for the timid feet of ignor- 
ance. 

Make education the first step of the elevation, that 
all may reach a material footing, and hopeless un- 
fortunates who are now in the lowest depths of 
misery and degradation will be abundantly able to 
rise and help themselves. This would be especially 
the case in our own country, where — 

"Thousands of hands want acres, 
And thousands of acres want hands." 

This age has seen one signally distinguished man 
of great wealth who understood the conditions and 
needs of the poor, and used his princely means 
intelligently for their benefit. He was an American 
by birth, by education the product of the common 
schools of New England, but he was a man of two 
hemispheres and a benefactor of his race. In Eng- 
land he founded hospitals and asylums; in America 
he lavished his wealth for the cause of education. 
How different in direction, and yet how like in pur- 
pose. The end was reached in the Old World by 
asylums ; in the New World by schools. What 
wealth of mournful sympathy there is in the former ; 
what bloom of hope in the latter. 



EDUCATIONAL. 28/ 



The donor thoroughly understood the situation on 
both sides of the Atlantic, and by his royal munifi- 
cence won the admiration of his own times and the 
gratitude of long generations to come. 

In every school book in the land, as a mark 
of honor for the unselfish good he did, should be 
printed — George Peabody, the grandest million- 
naire philanthropist that ever lived. 

Educate the poor, and thus remove them further 
from the temptations of crime. Educate the poor, 
and thus place in their hands a weapon to subdue 
the besetting sins incident to their condition, and 
instil into their hearts the hope of better things. 
Educate the poor. Elevate their ambition. In- 
crease their means. Teach them to enjoy what 
they get, participate in the enjoyment of their next 
neighbors, the rich, and give them a life interest in 
society at large. Make education the effective foe 
of poverty, and find the only true solution of this 
most living question of political economy, which 
has so long puzzled the brains of mankind. 

Colleges and universities and the various private 
institutions of learning can not do it, because of their 
intrinsic exclusiveness and incapacity to extend their 
fostering wings over all. They are powerless to 
accomplish this object, or even materially to ad- 
vance it, being a part of an entirely different design. 
What then ? 

A system of universal instruction must grapple 
with it — a system comprehensive enough to em- 
brace all in its scope. It has been found, we trust 
and believe, in the public schools of America. 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



Popular education, through the magnetism there 
is in the term, has become a national thought. It 
was the necessary outgrowth of other free institu- 
tions in which the United States is leading the van 
of nations. With us it must be of that character 
best adapted to promote the healthy growth and 
harmonious development of the country. This is 
the first great work it has to do, and it will require 
a union of all our forces, and the exercise of all our 
energies to do it well. Our legislators, our states- 
men, our learned men must be actively engaged in 
the cause, as these prominent classes are to-day, and 
have ever been in some of the old European coun- 
tries and especially in England. The leading minds 
of Great Britain are continually busy with education 
and reforms ; and to a high state of culture, which 
seems to be hereditary as their patents as gentlemen 
and titles as lords of the realm, is principally due 
the remarkable fact that after all these centuries 
of luxury and refinement, there are no evidences 
of decay among the aristocracy and nobility of Eng- 
land. 

On the contrary, every age extends the old, vig- 
orous English growth of cultured manhood and 
womanhood by bringing the lords and the people 
nearer and nearer together ; and even royalty is now 
mingling its blood in the subject's veins. 

English freedom was an old boast which became 
a reality, and, as time passed, rose to the height of 
grandeur. It was the legitimate offspring of English 
education, and is jealously guarded by its mighty 
mother, who transmitted the heritage to all English- 



EDUCATIONAL. 289 



speaking peoples. She perfected monarchy in Great 
Britain, and she founded a republic in America. If 
our good mother England lost a continent at Bunker 
Hill because she had to contend with a new element of 
education which she did not understand, she saved 
a world at Waterloo perhaps through the lesson 
taught her by her loyal yet progressive children. 

We have an amazing example of the power of 
education in the late terrible clash of arms between 
Germany and France. 

Germany had many learned men and learned insti- 
tutions, and was at the same time an essentially 
educated people. France had learned men and 
brilliant institutions as well, but according to the 
standard of her powerful neighbor, was not an edu- 
cated nation. 

Germany lived in the present, and for the future, 
and its most vital thought was the unity of the Fa- 
therland. All over the German States thought con- 
verged in the grand central point of national union. 

France lived in the past, and feasted till she sick- 
ened on her old glory. The education of the masses 
was neglected and intelligence became contaminated 
with superstition. Whenever they attempted a move- 
ment out of their worse than torpid state they lacked 
the inspiration of a strong popular purpose, and a 
skeleton hand was thrust forth out of the dark and 
dragged them back. It was the ghost of their idol, 
the great emperor. They moved many times for a 
free republic, but lacked the education of personal 
liberty, and the republic always became the battle- 
ground for the empire. 



290 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



The German hosts gathered on their borders hke 
a cloud surcharged with hghtning of their wonderful 
vitality. It was not the army of a nation, but a 
whole race in arms, and it fell upon its hereditary 
foe with an iron storm. It was more. It was an 
educated engine driving remorselessly through a 
mass of national and ancestral pride, which stood 
wrapped in dreams of the past, and believed itself to 
be invincible and immortal. 

On drove the army of which every troop thought 
like a savant, and every battery opened its argument 
like a university. Pride, however strong, was no 
match for education such as this. Traditional 
prowess, however grand, could not win battles against 
one living, all-pervading thought, which, by reason of 
an universal belief in eternal justice, had become an 
accomplished fact before one blow was struck. 

In such a contest there could be but one result, 
and it furnishes, perhaps, the most striking illustra- 
tion in the unnumbered pages of history pf both the 
moral and physical power of popular education. 

Schools are of instantaneous growth. We are not 
required to wait on them as we wait for a young 
orchard to bear fruit. The intermediate stages of 
development were passed long ago, and the yield is 
spontaneous and abundant. 

They need only to be transplanted from one 
locality to another — from the nursery to the field. 
They thrive as well in the desert as in the garden, 
and may attain the same perfection everywhere. 

As regards the quality of education, the Old World 
possesses no advantage over the new, nor is the East 



EDUCATIONAL. 29I 



of our own country superior to the West, for the 
varieties are sure to reproduce themselves. The 
means, alone, must be provided and set to work, and 
the thing is done. This is what we are doing in 
Warrensburg to-day. 

The operation of the public school system in the 
city of St. Louis is a bright example of the wonder- 
ful success in brain culture that can be reached in a 
quarter of a century, and reflects lasting credit upon 
those who have had its management. We can safely 
pride ourselves upon the best, and should " give 
honor to whom honor is due " for this especial bless- 
ing which we enjoy. 

To do this work as it has been done required not 
only brilliant intellect and profound knowledge of 
all the branches taught, but every-day business 
capacity and organizing ability of the highest order. 
The best evidence of the varied attainments of these 
masters is the great work they have done. 

Their highest praise is the gratitude of their fellow- 
citizens, and the personal pride with which each 
citizen regards the incomparable system of education 
by them created. 

This retired and unselfish labor, for the most part 
hidden from the public eye, might have passed with- 
out adequate recognition of the powers brought to 
it had it not been for our enlightened educational 
journals, which from time to time have given us 
glimpses of the forces at work, and the philosophy of 
their action. 

The American people are in a moving mood. 
Everything is moving westward. Even the East is 



292 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

moving out West. The mind, genius, wealth and 
power of this great nation will be most richly devel- 
oped in the Valley of the Mississippi. Our own 
proud State is doing her part in the general move- 
ment, and will receive her full share of the glory. 
She may build the Athens of America within her 
borders. 

The State of Missouri is now the most important 
outpost of the territory, at the same time subjugated 
and disenthralled by the advancing legions of the 
educated. It may be regarded in many respects as 
the border-land adjoining the enemy's country. 

Education is another "voice of one crying in the 
wilderness " to prepare the way for the greatest con- 
federation of peoples that the world ever saw. The 
voice has a pleading pathos which can not fail of 
conversion, and that lofty tone, springing only from 
the consciousness of a new revelation and a sublime 
mission. 

Our noble corps of teachers are gathered like sen- 
tinels on the heights all around, and much depends 
upon their watchfulness and bravery. On their ban- 
ners gleams to the benighted a "strange device," 
which is at once their watchword and the herald of 
victory. Their faces are turned towards the setting 
sun, but they shine resplendent with the beams of 
the morning, at whose fountain they have drunk 
inspiration, and are now proclaiming the glad tidings 
of moral redemption and a* promised land. 

One word — gravitation — solved the problem of 
the universe. One word — education — is solving 
the problem of society and mankind. 



EDUCATIONAL. 



293 



Men may tear down whatever they build up 
except education, which is moulded in their type and 
stamped in their very souls. It alone, of all human 
architecture, is indestructible, imperishable, and solid 
as the foundations of the world. 




NORMAL SCHOOL DEDICATION. 



II. 




'HE awakened genius of education is stretch- 

% ing its young limbs, and the warm blood is 

coursing healthily in its veins and arteries. 

^^J It is building magnificent county seats, and 
apparently means to establish a firm footing in newly 
opened territory by paving every school district in 
our State with corner-stones. 

These ceremonies and this public demonstration 
signify that the people who inaugurated them are in 
solemn earnest. You thus proclaim to the whole 
world that your hearts and souls are alive to the im- 
portance of the movement, and you thus pledge your 
lives, fortunes and sacred honor to the consummation 
of your aspirations, and the realization of your 
hopes. Having taken this step you can not retreat. 
Pride comes in to guard the work already done, and 
your native enterprise will urge you to the execution 
of the design. 

The corner-stone has been tested by the proper 
implements of the builders' craft and pronounced 
well formed, true and trusty, and correctly laid. It 
is capable of sustaining the superstructure. Apply 
the lesson. You have begun right. Your work is 
true — your material is solid, your foundation is 



EDUCATIONAL. 295 



strong, and assures you that you may go on laying 
stone upon stone, until the building is finished and 
stands in your midst an enduring monument of your 
skill. 

It is not a monument to commemorate the dead, 
but to perpetuate the wisdom and foresight of the 
living. It is to live among you and grow with you, 
the hope of maturity and the safeguard of the young. 
To future generations it will record a great act of 
justice, and conscientious performance of duty of the 
fathers and mothers of eighteen hundred and seventy- 
one. 

The corner-stone has been consecrated with the 
corn of nourishment, the wine of refreshment, and 
the oil of joy, — emblematical of health, peace and 
prosperity. Let us draw the lesson. 

The universal brotherhood which we represent in- 
culcates harmony among the whole people in the 
prosecution of such an undertaking as this. It insists 
that we must work as an unit, and strive as one man 
to insure complete success; that, however we may 
differ in creeds and opinions in other affairs of life, 
we must lay all personal preferences and prejudices 
inimical to this purpose upon a common altar dedi- 
cated to universal education. 

Then the edifice will grow, stone upon stone, har- 
moniously to its summit, in an atmosphere of peace, 
radiant with the glow of health, and resounding with 
the rejoicings of prosperity. Every stone will be 
consecrated to human progress by the corn of 
nourishment, the wine of refreshment, and the oil of 

joy- 



296 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

The squared stone of the corner represents the 
great thought which underlies the act; the living 
thought from which the movement springs ; the har- 
monious thought which must permeate and direct all 
its counsels. It is symbolical of a perfect character 
developed by culture. It comprehends the grand 
result of all our educational work, and is also typical 
of the completed structure. 

And now we come to the finished building. 

What does it teach ? What blessings does it 
promise ? Contrast it with the old frame school- 
house which squats away down in the vista of our 
memory. It is another pile of evidence that the peo- 
ple, having taken hold of their own affairs, are capa- 
ble of managing the trust. Having wrested from old 
feudal systems freedom of person, they are rapidly 
becoming freeholders in mind, and think and act for 
themselves. Mental and moral servitude is by far 
the worst species of slavery. These shackles have 
fallen, and the whole people are marching with deep 
ranks and a broad front, up to their higher intellec- 
tual destiny. A detachment of them has halted here 
to-day, halted only, not stopped. They are celebrat- 
ing a peaceful victory, and will soon go marching on 
to heights of still more exalted being, that shine upon 
their longing vision from afar. 

The professions, which of old, were clothed with 
terror, and delivered their oracles from behind a 
dark, impenetrable curtain to the people cowering in 
a dimly lighted chamber, have yielded to the clamors 
of the audience for more light. The veil was torn 
away. Much intellectual humbug has been exposed. 



EDUCATIONAL. 297 



Periwig doctors, armed with audacity and voiced with 
thunder, ha.ve vanished. 

"The altars are broke in the temple of Baal." 

The old solemnities that presided by overawing, and 
tyrannized in darkness, are gone forever, and their 
places shall know them no more. The people have 
rushed like a swelling sea into these mysterious 
sanctuaries, and taken possession of their ancient in- 
heritance and their rights. The professions, divested 
of their superstitious auxiliaries, mingle with the 
masses, of which they form a respectable and now 
honorable part, and in their exercise mutual confi- 
dence and reciprocal love have taken the place of 
irrational awe and secret hate. 

The audience halls are lighted and aired — your 
Normal School is one of them. Behold it and re- 
joice, ye emancipated people. The old dark school- 
house is gone. The old school-master, sore afflicted 
with his rheumatic mentality, could not endure the 
pouring-in streams of light and air, and the cheery 
voice of freedom. He, too, is gone; gone with his 
instruments of torture ; 

" Gone glimmering through the dream of things that were." 

A new era reigns in the realms of mind. Its morn- 
ing light has aroused the people to put forth their 
strength. Their watchword is " Popular Education," 
and we are now, as it were, surrounding the corner- 
stone of a new temple of the sun, celebrating the 
dawn of a brighter day with thankfulness, gratulation 
and joy. 



298 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

There is no necessity of poverty in this beautiful 
land. Education is a richer patrimony than gold. 
The voice of culture is becoming more powerful than 
the jingle of the " almighty dollar." A man may be 
compelled to labor, but if he have mental culture he 
can not be poor — 

" He, th^ heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of Time." 

Let us hope — those who can not hope may still 
dream — that we are driving into an age of the world 
when poverty will be impossible, and squalid sloth 
unknown ; when honest labor will be the only type 
of nobility ; when all will be rich in that which alone 
can make wealth of value, and all workers with the 
hands ; when education will be universal, and men 
and women rated according to the use they make of 
it, and the amount of good they do. Such would 
be a truly golden age, without the servile drudgery 
of gold. 

And now let us take a cursory view of the field as 
it is spread before us, and note the prospect. A 
good, solid education seems to-be the spirit of the 
time. All may participate in its benefits and bless- 
ings until the old class distinctions and barriers of 
life exist no more to traverse and scar the body poli- 
tic with harsh dividing lines. The laborer, the me- 
chanic, the farmer, the merchant and the professional 
man spring from the same level and receive their 
early training in the same schools. So far, society is 
equalized. This mingling of youth is the basis of a 
better life-long understanding. They know each 
other simply as they are, and no one knows what 



EDUCATIONAL. 299 



business or profession his fellow is destined to adopt. 
Ambition and mental proclivities determine their 
calling and mould their future lives. School educa- 
tion is but the key of knowledge to unlock the mys- 
teries of the unknown. Having it, every man must 
use it for himself; otherwise it rusts and becomes 
worthless in his hands. 

It is a fact of which there are innumerable living 
examples, that a boy who gets an education in our 
common schools, having ambition and fair natural 
ability, can be anything he will. His course is free, 
and every avenue to distinction and honor opens to 
his magic key. If he rise above his fellows he has 
a thorough knowledge of the condition and needs of 
those below him, and his experience has infinitely 
increased his power for good. He may be a great 
educator, or a legislator, or a governor, without the 
crutch of money to lean upon, or any of the so-called 
" learned professions " to help him along. What 
does he want with their one-sidedness when his edu- 
cation has been experimental, and in some sort uni- 
versal ? He is far better without one single profession 
to guide the destinies of men of all conditions and 
professions. 

Relics of the old masquerade of the professions still 
linger, even under our republican system of society. 
The gown and wig, and pomposity have been dis- 
carded, but the tradition remains ; and the idea that 
the professions alone are fitted to manage public af- 
fairs, and give tone to public life, shows much vitality. 
Its tendency is to concentrate the ruling power in 
the hands of a particular class, instead of representing 



300 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

in its administration the interests of all. This, the 
policy of our public school system will in time correct, 
its very life and spirit being opposed to all forms of 
aristocracy, which assumes exclusive prerogatives 
and the sole right to rule. 

Men have striven life-long for wealth, and ended 
their days in the alms-houses; for power, and became 
prisoners and slaves. But never yet has an earnest 
effort to become educated failed to bring its sub- 
stantial results and its crown of honor. In the 
bright lexicon of "Young America," resolved to 
educate himself, there is truly no such word as fail. 
Let no youth of our country sit down and grieve be- 
cause his opportunities have not afforded him a 
special education, when he has had the advantage of 
our glorious system of public schools to make him- 
self a man. 

Now a word for the little people, many of whom 
are here to-day, who would rather run wild in the 
woods and fields and study nature, than learn their 
lessons in books. If the books can not be taken to 
the fields, the spirit of the fields can be brought to 
the books. 

We sometimes hear of dull children who never 
learned anything at school, and finally left those in- 
stitutions with the diploma of a dunce. Some of 
these academic dunces have developed into the 
brightest intellects that ever illumed the world. 
The contrast between the beginning and the 
end of such lives may well create suspicion that 
the teachers and not the children were dull. 
These old masters of letters apparently knew 



EDUCATIONAL. 3© I 



everything but what was nearest — human nature — 
which was to them a sealed book. They never 
thought of opening the little volumes before them, 
and reading and sympathizing with what was there. 
They looked upon the child-brain all alike — as a 
sheet of white paper, upon which they commenced 
scribbling uninteUigible words without reference to 
what was already written, never to be blotted out. 
The very natural result was nonsense, and the child, 
not knowing how it came, gave up the puzzle in 
despair, and was content to be called a fool. 

Poor little victim of unmerited disgrace ! who could 
have taught the teacher the very beginning and end 
of all knowledge in its prattling way, if the pompous 
man had but listened to nature's voice, prophetic in 
the child! There is nothing so brim full of pa- 
thos as the pleading of such tongues in ears that 
can not, or will not, hear them ; or the dumb, yet 
eloquent appealing of such hearts to hearts that can 
not understand. 

The art of teaching promulgated by our Normal 
Schools is happily founded in human nature, and, 
therefore, it seizes at once upon the character of the 
child, moves in sympathy with it, stimulates interest 
opens the book of knowledge like a wonderful story, 
and gives to the dry tomes of science the freshness, 
and flavor of the loved Arabian tales. 

How many years of dullness and disgrace are thus 
saved, to be added to the lustrous years thereafter, 
that contribute to the store of the world's treasures, 
with which it forever enriches its future. 

Our pubHc schools are the great arsenals of 



302 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

progress. All the forces of civilization meet in the 
school-room among the teachers and boys and girls, 
and quietly organize for their successive campaigns. 
They go forth with shields more radiant than Achilles' 
armor, and lives more invulnerable than Achilles' 
self, to disperse the mob of error, and take the 
embattled citadels of abuse by storm. 

Learning is no old philosopher's dream, but it is 
the waking reality of millions who are struggling 
out of the shadows of ignorance and poverty into 
the sunlight of knowledge and comfort. It is not 
the light only, it is the eye, and it shapes the object. 
It is the strong arm that wields the weapon, and it 
is the bright blade that flashes and cleaves. It is 
the muscle and the intellect ; instinct and reason ; 
body and soul. 

Knowledge is not the solitary diamond of great 
price which sparkles and burns on the breast of some 
magnate of the land ; it is a whole diadem of jewels, 
within the reach of high and low, rich and poor, to 
grace the brow of every one who puts forth a hand 
to grasp the prize. It reverses the natural laws 
which govern other precious things. The more 
there is of it the more valuable does it become, and 
the more one gives away the more one has. We 
have struck a new vein of it here — an exhaustless 
mine of that shining ore which contributes more 
than any other influence to happiness, prosperity, 
worldly wealth and power. Let it be worked until 
every hand holds a sceptre and every head wears a 
crown. 




SKETCHES FROM LIFE, 



UKEL-ZAM. 



LEGEND OF THE VEILED PROPHET. 



iji^lfOR several years the annual carnivals of the 
^1 Veiled Prophets have been occasions of wide 
^ and wondering interest in that marvellous 
<J^ ocean-bounded country whose central great 
city is San Lotos. The American nation that pre- 
sides over the development and directs the destinies 
of the country is yet young in years, and the first sur- 
prise was that so old a personage as a prophet should 
take such an exceptional interest in so young a peo- 
ple. Again, the origin of the Veiled Prophet, his 
character, ancestry and object in visiting San Lotos 
at a stated season every year were wrapped in the 
deepest mystery, which heretofore no pertinacious 
curiosity has been able to solve. The Prophet makes 
his timely announcements, comes with his legions in 
royal splendor, from no one knows whence, has a 
dazzling night of it, turning darkness into day in his 
train, vanishes before the morning's dawn, no one 



304 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

knows whither, and leaves the people in a glamour of 
amazement. 

So far as is known the Veiled Prophet does not 
use the electric telegraph, the magnetic telephone, 
the people's postal service or any of the ocean tran- 
sits or lines of railway to communicate his designs 
or transport his regal pomp. All of his communica- 
tions are " strictly confidential," and all his move- 
ments are mysteries. So the wonder grows. 

But the time came for the solution of the Veiled 
Prophet mystery and here it is : — 

One night — the excitement of a solitary watcher 
prevented his noting of the hour — a single gallop- 
ing horse was heard crossing a great bridge which 
spans the Mississippi, with such speed that the toll- 
takers shouted in vain. On the back of the horse 
was a horseman whose head seemed to be en- 
veloped in a mosquito bar. It was a veil — no 
doubt about that. Over the bridge, the horseman 
slackened his speed, and after a tortuous winding of 
several squares dismounted at a pile of millstones 
left out of doors because they were supposed to be 
too heavy to be carried off by night prowlers. The 
horseman, unaware of being "shadowed," took from 
his left inside vest pocket a numerously sealed pack- 
age, which shone in the twinkling starlight, and 
quickly dropped it in the opening of the upper mill- 
stone. At that supreme moment the wary watcher 
tapped him on the shoulder and thus accosted 
him : 

" Sir, I'm night watchman here, and shall have to 
take you in, for trying to steal a millstone." 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 305 

He replied : 

" You don't say so. Here's a nickel to let me go, 
and keep mum." 

The shining solicitor was refused, and the horse- 
man mused a bit. At length he said : " It's all 
up ; we're cornered, the secret's out. Can you see 
through a millstone ? " 

"Yes; if there's a hole in it." 

" Correct ! That's the point, and don't you forget 
it. I'll tell you all, if you'll let me slip." 

"All what ? " 

"All about the marvels of the Veiled Prophets." 

"All right ; now we are coming to the point." 

The horseman continued : " Fact is, the business 
I'm on has been held a mystery long enough, espe- 
cially as its object and outcome are public. There 
is no reason for further concealment, and I'll tell you 
who I am and all I know. Listen ! I am an emis- 
sary of the Veiled Prophet — Ukel-Zam — who has 
made several visits to your city, incognito, and is now 
on his way here to conduct another and still greater 
festival in October. The opening in this millstone, 
which you are able to see through, is the Veiled 
Prophet's post-office, into which I have just dropped 
a letter of instructions to the ' Solid Citizen ' and 
chief of the mystic order here, and I must ask you 
to respect the secrecy and sacredness of that pack- 
age, sealed with twelve seals — a seal for every month 
in the year, and a golden seal for October. That 
letter must be opened at break of day by the proper 
hands." 

"All right again, amiable horseman ; go on." 



3o6 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



And leaning on that pile of millstones holding 
the bridle reins of his steed in his hand under 
the calm autumnal starlight, the veil still hiding 
his face, the emissary from the Orient, related 
the following history of Ukel-Zam, until now 
known only as the Veiled Prophet of the Him- 
alayas. The Wandering Jew has long been ex- 
ploded as a myth of the Dark Ages, but Ukel- 
Zam is an earthly reality, that lives on forever. 
In the early times of man, before the dawn of 
written history, his fame as a world-builder be- 
came so great that he was deified, and mixed up 
with mythology after the manner of the primitive 
peoples. Patterns of men became objects of wor- 
ship in after times, and thus the gods were dis- 
tributed to preside over the various arts and sciences 
and human pursuits as they developed into activity 
and solidity. 

Zeus, better known in these days as Jupiter, the 
father of them all, was very liberal in the distribu- 
tion of his secondary deities, but, like common 
mortals, he forgot some things that needed looking 
after. Among these lapses of memory or ignorance 
of the situation, he neglected to provide for the me- 
chanic arts, upon which agriculture and the real life 
of the world so much depend. He was rather partial 
to women, and produced nine daughters to order, 
collectively called the Muses. To History he gave 
Clio ; to Lyric Poetry, Euterpe ; to Comedy, Thalia ; 
to Tragedy, Melpomene ; to Dance, Terpsichore ; to 
the Ode and Love Song, Erato ; to the Hymnal, 
Polymnia ; to Astronomy, Urania ; and to Epic Po- 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 3O7 

etry and Music, Calliope ; but for the mechanic arts 
he provided no patron deity. 

He had Juno for Company, Venus for Ornament, 
Pallas for Perfection, Mercury for Speed, Mars for 
War, and Vulcan to do dirty work at the forge for 
human destruction, but no one to beat swords into 
plowshares. Some of the lesser gods were much 
offended because of IMars. He was never an Olym- 
pian favorite, and many thought, as a god had been 
detailed to destroy mankind, that there ought to be 
a foil provided for man's sustenance and protec- 
tion — a god of peace as well as a god of war. 

It was a sly conspiracy, but it came to pass that 
Vulcan, the brawny blacksmith, and Venus, the 
blonde beauty of Olympus, contrived to have a 
surreptitious son, and they called his name Me- 
kanus, and reared him secretly in the practice of the 
useful arts. But his great works finally betrayed 
him to be of the royal Jovan family, and as Zeus 
could not brook grandchildren or third cousins near 
the throne, Mekanus was banished, by Jupiter ! and 
driven out of Olympus, by Jove ! Vulcan was 
chained to his own forge -forever, and Venus con- 
tinued to be tolerated among the Immortals on 
account of her beauty, but her reputation has never 
been rightly cleared up. 

Ostracised, expatriated, banished, Mekanus went 
into a strange land and among a strange people 
who were not ready for his enlightenment, but he 
gathered unto himself a few trusty disciples, took 
the veil for greater security from pursuit and med- 
dling interference, changed his name to Ukel-Zam 



308 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

(solid citizen) to conceal his origin and identity, and 
in conformity to the language of the people among 
whom he had cast his future lot; and the master 
and followers betook themselves for a safe refuge 
and seclusion into the lofty fastnesses of the Hima- 
laya Mountains in Thibet. All this happened before 
the dawn of that history which has lighted the world 
along for some thousands of years. 

And now comes a slight contradiction of the old 
legends, and even history itself, but before pointing 
out the discrepancy let us consider well the Hima- 
laya meaning in Sanscrit, " the abode of snow." 
Forty-five of the peaks exceed 23,000 feet each in 
height. The Crown Peak, and the highest point 
known on the globe — Mount Everest — towers 29,- 
002 feet above the level of the sea. Now it is 
recorded that the deluge, known as "Noah's Flood," 
submerged the whole earth, the teachers and com- 
mentators say five miles deep, covering all the 
known mountain tops. No one has ever claimed 
the depth of the deluge as over five miles, or 26,- 
400 feet all around, while the highest peak of the 
Himalaya is 2,602 feet over five miles. Here is 
solid ground for the belief that a point of land still 
remained high and dry above the flood, upon which 
living beings might have weathered the storm. 
Somebody, therefore, could have tided the deluge 
over besides Noah and his family, by whom the 
earth was to be repeopled. 

The legend of the Ukel-Zam, the Veiled Prophet, 
comes to the aid of geography and supports this 
theory, which is further reinforced by two curious 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 3O9 

linguistic facts on the Continent of Europe — the 
Hungarian and the Basque languages. Neither the 
Hungarian nor the Basque bear any resemblance or 
relationship whatever to the Semitic, Hamitic, Ja- 
phetic, or to any of the family of Aryan tongues. 
It has long been a mystery and a puzzle to philolo- 
gists where they came from and how they got into 
Europe. The legend of the Veiled Prophet offers 
the only rational solution of this difficult problem. 

Ukel-Zam and his followers were in the Himalaya 
Mountains when the flood came, and were driven by 
the rising waters up the peak of Mount Everest. 

The inference is clear : They kept out of the 
thick of the wet, and when the waters subsided they 
came down again and took a hand at replenishing 
and repeopling the earth. 

Before the historic migrations of nations began, 
still holding their fort and the base line of the Him- 
alayas, they pushed into Europe, driving the abor- 
igines before them to the Pyrenees, where they 
lodged, and saved their original tongue, which is 
called Basque, while the Himalayan invaders founded 
a colony and planted their own language in Hun- 
gary. The Aryan peoples in after ages surrounded 
them, and then both the Hungarians and the Basques 
became the puzzling problems of the learned world, 
and this exposition of the Veiled Prophet mystery 
may prove the long-lost, now-found key to the Hun- 
garian-Basque philological situation. 

Ukel-Zam and his followers had their choice of 
the forty-five eternally snow-capped peaks of the 
Himalayas, and were forced by the circumstances 



310 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

of a very rainy season to choose the highest. The 
leader founded the order of the " Veiled Prophets," 
and his banished seclusion and the guard of the 
veil suggested the veiling ceremony of the initia- 
tion. All the band were veiled in token of the 
hidden forces of nature constantly at work for the 
world's best development, and all within the power 
of man to hitch to the car of progress. Ukel-Zam 
was proclaimed the prophet of progress, and crowned 
as the divinity who presides over the mechanic arts. 
The Prophets discovered in Mount Everest an 
immense natural system of caves and rock-built 
passages linking them all together. The entrance to 
the caverned halls is near the shore of a lake which 
kisses the sky six thousand five hundred and twenty 
feet above the sea. 

In this valley in the heart of the Himalayas all 
the seasons of the revolving years are continually 
present — spring, summer, autumn, winter, reigning 
at different heights on the hills and mountain sides 
at the same time, all the year round. 

The region abounds in the precious metals and the 
purest crystals of all kinds and colors. The Prophets 
found the caves illuminated with them, and the 
largest cavern they soon transformed into a great 
castle hall of wondrous brilliancy by seizing upon 
the natural formations and moulding them into 
myriads of graceful art forms. 

The skins of tigers and leopards and other wild 
animals of the mountains furnish the carpets and 
couches for the castle and chambers, making the 
mansion of the Prophets luxurious and richer in 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 3II 

furnishment than the palaces of the Oriental kings. 
Adjoining this are many other apartments of utility 
and great work, shops full of all sorts of machinery 
and every known kind of mechanism, set and kept in 
motion by a subterranean stream and waterfall from 
the continually falling and melting snows of the 
upper mountain region, which after spinning the 
great power-wheel, dashes out into the lake. 

The workshops and machinery-rooms of the Veiled 
Prophets are museums of all the industrial arts, 
and thus the world moves and grows in the 
mountain's womb and brings forth a new birth every 
day, and this development of the useful and beauti- 
ful has been in progress unnumbered ages. 

The crystal water which distills from the snow on 
the summit of Mount Everest, and flows into a great 
golden basin, gemmed with diamonds around the 
brim, in the prophet's palace, is the true and only 
elixir of life, and the proof of it is the perpetual 
existence of those who drink it. The Veiled Prophet 
has possession of the "philosopher's stone," and the 
secret of the transmutation of metals, for which the 
alchemists have sought so long in vain. Therefore 
the mystic pass-word of the prophets is Eureka ! 

As might be supposed, the Veiled Prophets could 
not have dwelt in the Himalayas so long entirely 
unknown to the surrounding people. Upon this 
point encyclopaedical authority tells us that the 
ancient Hindus invested Mount Everest with the 
most mysterious properties and attributes, and con- 
nected it with the history of some of their own 
deities. It was supposed to be the abode of Siva, 



312 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

the patron of penitent prilgrims who repair to its 
summit to win the favors of the indwelhng god. 

Ukel-Zam is credited with being the master of 
mysteries and the source of all the secret orders of 
the world which began the march of enlightenment 
in the various nations. He was the high priest of 
the old dusky priesthood on the banks of the Nile, 
the founder of the mysteries of Isis and Osiris in 
ancient Egypt ; also the Gymnosophists of India, 
the Eleusinians of Greece, the rites of Adonis and 
Bacchus in Phoenicia, the Gnostics of Alexandria, 
and it is claimed by some that he laid the corner- 
stone of Freemasonry at Jerusalem, 

Be these things as they may — and they can never 
be accurately known — it is certain that the Veiled 
Prophet has been present at every grand movement 
of the human race and presided at the ceremonies. 
He gazed upon the pyramids and obelisks while 
building ; he promoted and pronounced all the seven 
wonders of the world, and before the confusion of 
tongues he told the builders of Babel's tower it was 
labor thrown away, and that he knew of a mountain 
which towered above high-water mark. 

Ukel-Zam would have participated in the inaugur- 
ation of some American world-wonders if he had 
been acquainted with the New World at the time. 
He first heard of " Uncle Sam " when he was about to 
celebrate his centennial in 1876, and the far foreign 
name so much like his own attracted his attention. 
In that year Ukel-Zam made a private tour of inspec- 
tion in the New World, and found it well worth his 
further attention. 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 



The Centennial Exposition was all well enough — 
once in a hundred years — but he thought the 
country worth an annual jubilee, and pitched upon 
the city of San Lotos as the proper place to give it, 
as the people already held an annual fair which had 
made a national reputation, and the only one of that 
acknowledged prominence in the land. He accord- 
ingly made all necessary arrangements and the Veiled 
Prophets first appeared in a grand street pageant in 
October, 1878. All know the marvellous result. 

This revelation of the Veiled Prophets is given in 
good faith and because secrecy is no longer avail- 
able, as the monolith — Cleopatra's needle — among 
many other interesting things, is inscribed with the 
whole history of Ukel-Zam, which can now be 
readily and truly translated by the aid of the long- 
lost work of Democritus — a key to the hieroglyphics 
recently come to light. 




MAN AND MONKEY. 



? 



'NCLE KEITH, tell us that monkey story 
again, which you said you always intended 



xUb[i to write out for a newspaper, or an editor's 



^^^ 



drawer, or something, and never did 



Now, if you'll promise to do the writing, and have 
it printed, I'll tell it over till you know every word 
of it by heart. 

It happened before Darwin ever thought of his 
theory that men were only monkeys with their tails 
worn off, and in fact my friend — the hero of the 
story — really made the discovery that Darwin many 
years after claimed. He even went further, and 
proved the fact of relationship between monkey and 
rnan in this particular case. 

Julius and I were school boys together. He was 
what we called the bully of the school, and had 
never found his match at wrestling and boxing during 
those early days. 

He took a hand at every new boy that came, in a 
square stand-up fight, and always came off victorious. 
He did not believe in, " Let dogs delight," etc. 
Cattle and horses always fought it out that way, 
and why not boys? Nature was the first teacher, 
and every boy should know his rank in nature. 
I had taken my turn in the scale among the rest 
and knew my weight. 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 315 

Jule was good-natured, too, and soon made up 
his little quarrels with the vanquished. He seemed 
born to rule, and at the same time win the love and 
admiration of his subjects, who were proud of their 
monarch, and prophesied great things of him when he 
grew to be a man. I predicted that he was sure to 
become a champion of the prize ring. He finally 
graduated himself with the highest honors by whip- 
ping the master and one or two of the school com- 
mittee, and as he could not be driven away from 
school, the academy had to move away from him. 
It broke up suddenly, and Jule went forth to fight 
all the world. 

He and I lived in different towns. What became 
of him I could not learn. Although I often looked 
for his name, and the records of his exploits, in the 
book of kings of the " square ring," I never found 
them, and at last concluded he had gone out West 
in search of other worlds to conquer. 

Years and years after these school times, there 
was a celebration in our town one day. Now, our 
town was a notoriously quiet town, an orderly town, 
a Christian town. It was full of religion, especially 
on Sundays. Everybody knew just how much, and 
what kind of religion everybody else had, and the 
Sabbath was Piety's parade day. If anybody didn't 
parade regularly, he or she was classed as a heathen. 
The children were not allowed to play, nor a horse 
to be led to water, nor a cow to chew her cud in the 
streets from twelve o'clock Saturday night till one 
o'clock Monday morning. If it had been possible 
the town authorities would have stopped the cocks 



3l6 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

from crowing and the winds from blowing, so pro- 
found and thorough was their sense and practice 
of rehgion on the Lords's day. 

I tremble even now to think of what happened at 
the time I tell of. The celebration, which was a big 
thing and a rare event in our Christian community, 
was on Saturday, and wound up with a wine dinner, 
a dance and a general carousal. Early in the day I 
discovered a familiar face in the ranks of the strangers 
who had come to join in the celebration. I was not 
mistaken. It was my old friend Jule. Our meeting 
was a merry one, and I soon became a part of the 
celebration. Jule and I had high times that day and 
night. We kept it up with the best of them, and, 
much to my astonishment, Jule never got into a 
fight. He and his full share of wine seemed to be at 
peace with all mankind. Probably the atmosphere 
of the town had done its work. 

He was docile. I feared the reverse. The thought 
came to me that he had sometime found more than 
his match, and quietly shelved himself after his de- 
feat. The sequel proved I was wrong, and that he 
was slyly lying in wait for something to turn up 
worthy of his good right arm. The occasion came 
very unexpectedly and curiously at lo o'clock on 
Sunday morning. I have reason to remember the 
day and the hour so many years ago, and the scene 
I shall certainly never forget. 

Jule and I had occupied a room together at a 
tavern, the little end of the night, and were by this 
time the very best of friends. He appeared to have 
grown a solid, substantial man. Not a word had 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 317 

been said of his old pugilistic habits. I had carefully- 
avoided the subject because I feared that I might stir 
up unpleasant reminiscences of some disaster that 
had cured him. 

After breakfast we were sitting in the large bar- 
room of the tavern, with some dozen others, tapering 
off the celebration, with occasional calls on the man 
behind the bar. There was in the room besides the 
celebrationists an individual known to all the town 
by the familiar name of Grandad. 

He was old and growing gray, and had a history. 
He was a baboon of enormous size. It was before 
the discovery of the gorilla and chimpanzee, or he 
would have been one or both of those. The landlord 
had taken him from a circus in payment of a board 
bill, and Grandad proved a good speculation in draw- 
ing custom. He was tall, and broad, and brawny, 
with long arms and a deep chest; and presented 
altogether a stalwart figure, and formidable front. 
He looked, for all the world, like a head demon in a 
spectacular play, save that he was dressed in a spike- 
tail blue coat with brass buttons, according to the 
fashion of the day, with his own^ caudal appendage 
hid away for personal propriety. He had a good set 
of teeth, and well-developed finger and toe nails. 
The landlord enhanced his attractions by telling 
marvellous stories about his strength, and savagery 
and his feats as a circus rider. He was kept chained 
to a post in the middle of the room, and there Gran- 
dad sat in a chair winking and blinking and wise, 
with apparently as much man in him as some others 
who were there ; but he hadn't half a chance to show 



3l8 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

his humanity, for his master kept him away from the 
glasses and decanters. He was therefore about the 
only individual in the room duly sober on this bright 
Sunday morning. 

Naturally he became the subject of many a joke, 
which he neither laughed at nor resented. 

One of the company asked the name of that un- 
sociable gentleman by the post. 

The landlord replied, Grandad. 

It was observed that the family resemblance was 
striking, at which the landlord bristled up : — 

Any family might be proud of him. Why he's 
the very king of all animal creation as to grit and 
fight. He can lick anything human or beastly. 

The immovable stolidity of the blue-coated figure 
under a continual fire of fun, was greatly at variance 
with the character that was claimed for him, and at 
length some one ventured a remark prejudical to his 
courage and fighting qualities. In short he allowed 
himself to be called a great cowardly lubber, to his 
face, and never budged or colored. 

The landlord answered this imputation : — 

Misters, that kind of monkey can lick anything that 
lives and breathes on earth. 

This made a loud laugh all 'round and more sneers 
for his monkeyship. 

I tell ye again, he can lick a mad bull, a tiger, a 
lion, or a nest of rattlesnakes if he wanted to ; but 
he don't care about it; he can't eat 'em, and he has 
no need or desire to kill 'em. It's in him if they 
come in his way. 

Another laugh all 'round, but, curious eyes took 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 3I9 



in all Grandad's fighting points. It was agreed that 
he did look powerful and probably might do those 
things if put to it. 

This admission brought Jule to his feet, his hands 
making fists, his breast heaving, and his eyes flashing 
fire. Everybody jumped up and stood in rapt ex- 
pectancy at this exhibition of threatening pantomime. 
There was evidently going to be a set-to, but whether 
with man or monkey was not clear. The nervous 
fists began to play the overture to a fight, and to all 
appearance the landlord was the object of attack. 
At any rate he thought it prudent to beat a neat re- 
treat behind his bar, 

Jule was evidently choking with pent-up wrath 
and indignation, and at length he slowly measured 
out the following reflection in a tremendous effort to 
be calm : — 

Did my education commence at the wrong end, 
and set me running backward all these years ? Am 
I told that a monkey can stand up before a bare- 
handed man and knock the fight out of him ? Man — 
only a little lower than the angels — fall before an 
unfinished ape ? 

This was utterea with the feeling and effect of a 
soliloquy ; then, in the same tone and measure, and 
more direct : — 

Look'ee here, bar-keeper, do you pretend to assert 
before this good company of gentlemen, that a man 
can't lick a monkey? Do I understand that's your 
position on this monkey question ? 

The landlord gently but firmly repHed : — 

That's so. That there monkey can Hck a man. 



320 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Why, bless yer soul, look at him. He can lick three 
men on him at once, but he's a peaceable being, and 
don't want to fight. He's a powerful example for 
some men I've seen. 

Jule's manner became more restless, and quicker 
and sharper, as he shot out like the flash of a 
rapier : — 

A MONKEY can lick a man, eh ? 

The as quick reply was : — 

Tear him all to pieces quicker'n a wink. 

And Jule went for the unsuspecting baboon full 
tilt among the bystanders, and over tables and chairs 
with his rapier expression, this time, point out : — 

What! A MAN can't lick a monkey? and dealt 
Grandad a blow which knocked him clean off the 
chair and broke his fastenings. His serene monkey- 
ship had been laboring under the disadvantage of 
not understanding a word of the language, but he 
now understood something of its purport, and 'had 
decidedly the advantage of his assailant in agility. 
He did not delay to parley the question, but got out 
the front door with wonderful ease and celerity — 
Jule after him, shouting at the top of his voice : — 

What ! A MAN can't lick a monkey ? 

The good people of the town, to nearly all of 
whom I was well known as a sober citizen, were 
wending their way to church, but I could not think 
of leaving Jule in the midst of such a doubtful con- 
test, although I had great faith in his prowess. I fol- 
lowed the rabble from the bar-room. Helter-skelter 
in among the astonished church-goers scampered 
the astonished monkey, closely followed by Jule, 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 32 1 

asserting his superiority by the pecuhar emphasis 
of the issue : — 

What ! A MAN can't Hck a monkey ? 

He evidently meant to put the mooted point for- 
ever at rest, and was totally oblivious to all proper- 
ties and surroundings. 

The church bell called the flock of the faithful in 
vain. There was an extraordinary monkey show, 
and they were resolved to see it out. A lumber- 
yard was close at hand, in which there was an iso- 
lated pile of boards, I should think about twenty 
feet high. One end of the pile was ragged and 
uneven with jutting and receding planks, while the 
other ends and sides were smooth and perpendicular. 
There being no convenient tree, Grandad sought this 
board-pile as the only visible means of escape from 
his pursuer, and he valiantly asserted his monkey- 
hood in climbing swiftly to the top. I did my best 
to dissuade Jule from following, but he violently 
shoved me aside and harped in his highest key : — 

What ! A MAN can't lick a monkey ? 

Up he went, and when I turned away in very 
shame, old Deacon Golong tapped me on the arm, 
and asked : — 

Who's your friend? and why do you thus blas- 
pheme the Lord's day? 

I remembered Peter's perplexity under widely 
different, and yet somewhat similar circumstances, 
and replied : — 

I don't know the man ; never saw him before ; but 
the monkey is a respectable citizen of this town. 
Common humanity taught me to save the man from 



322 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

making a monkey of himself, Lord's day or no. 
If I were in your place, I'd leave this carnal festive 
scene and go along. 

By this time the sounds in the upper regions of 
the lumber pile indicated that Jule and Grandad were 
hard at it, in a pretty even match for mastership. 
Monkey took his punishment like a man, and did not 
know how to halloo when he had enough. He bit 
and scratched, and tore his antagonist's clothes, until 
poor Jule was bleeding all over and almost nude, 
playing a marvellous, laughable tragedy on that reek- 
ing stage, before a Sunday-go-to-meeting congrega- 
tion. It was said that the parson was also there, 
hiding in the crowd. I will not swear to that, but do 
know that he had no occasion to preach a sermon 
that morning in our town. 

The combat went on for above an hour, with vary- 
ing fortunes. Sometimes it was monkey, and some- 
times it was man who had the best of it. In such 
an even balance hung the superiority of the human 
race to its speechless and hairy ancestry. There was 
scrambling and hugging, and wrestling and hitting, 
and bitiug and falling, and rolling over and over on 
the sounding floor, and at every lull of the fight, 
Jule's voice rang out above the murmurs of the 
crowd loud and clear : — 

What! A MAN can't lick a monkey? 

Jule scorned to take a mean advantage of his 
adversary, on account of his human nature, and de- 
veloped reason, and so fought the monkey on his 
own ground, with his natural weapons, and as near 
as possible according to prize ring rules. At length 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 323 

he got monkey's head in chancery, and letting into 
him a shower of rapid blows he raised his face 
seamed with scratches, and smeared with blood to 
to the expectant throng below, and in triumph 
shouted : — 

What ! A MAN can't lick a monkey ? 

The battle was ended — the victory won — the 
momentous question was settled — a man can lick a 
monkey. 

Jule took Grandad by a fragment of the chain which 
he had carried with him in his flight, and began to 
clamber to the ground. The Sunday-school scat- 
tered like leaves before a blast, for Jule, however he 
might be tolerated on the stage at a respectable dis- 
tance, was too scant of drapery to appear among the 
spectators, many of whom were pious women and 
tender children. Jule and Grandad had a compara- 
tively clear street back to the tavern, and they seemed 
to have arrived at a pleasant, mutual understanding. 

The landlord was the only spectator who did not 
enjoy the exhibition, and as soon as the fight was 
over he had crept sullenly back behind his bar, 
where he stood with lowering brows when the crowd 
re-entered. 

Jule, with a confirmed sense of his superiority, 
though his looks indicated that he had the worst of 
the battle, as he led in his late antagonist, yelled 
out : — 

Landlord, a gin cocktail ! What ! A man can't 
lick a monkey? 

All smiled ; even the landlord smiled ; he couldn't 
help it. Grandad evidently understood that the affair 



324 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



was over ; went to his post, and solemn, dignified, 
supremely respectable, took his seat on the chair, 
with one good eye left, winking and blinking and 
wise. For aught I know he is sitting there still, 
drawing custom. So ended the celebration. 







HALF-PAST FIVE IN THE MORNING. 



yT was late in June in the factory village of Glen- 
M Ryddle in Pennsylvania's oldest county — the 
c) oldest from the fact that on the river edge of it 
^ Penn first set foot in his New World domain. 

A dashing stream leaps and runs in and out among 
the woods and hills and rocks, apparently looking for 
something to do, until finally, tired of its race, it 
wallows in the marshes of the Delaware, and, fallen 
asleep among the reeds, is gathered up in the arms 
of the tides and carried off. 

Early settlers took its babbling suggestion of 
" water power,"' and it became a mill stream. 

At several turns of its course they caught and held 
it between the hills, and when it had done their mill- 
ing they set it free in foaming, flashing cascades, 
soon to be caught and enslaved again after its wild 
bound for liberty. So they alternately checked and 
accelerated its course down the narrow glen it had 
found from its birth spring to the billowy bosom of 
mother ocean. 

Glenn-Ryddle, one of its stopping places, is a knot 
in the two chains of bordering hills which girt the 
stream and seem to forbid its further progress. Cot- 
ton and woolen mills are rooted in the rocks at the 
base, and the straggling factory town rambles up on 



326 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

all sides as if to get farther, and farther away from 
the hum of the spindles and looms — the great 
house of Glenn-Ryddle at the summit of the highest 
of the hills being entirely beyond the hum. 

A railway dashes around one hill side from some- 
where, and after holding its trafficking trains in sight 
of the glen for a moment, whirls around the other 
side and disappears — no matter where. It tells of a 
world from which it came and speeds to a world 
waiting for it beyond, and the secluded factory town 
is a part of both worlds, caring little for either. 

The coming and going trains are of no interest to 
the factory hands of Glenn-Ryddle, for they could 
not get away from their mill life if they would, and 
doubtless they would not desire to go if they could. 
They make a contented and happy community at 
work in the mills all day, and gossiping and garden- 
ing on their blooming hill sides in the evening. 

The greatest sorrow that ever visited Glenn-Ryd- 
dle, came to the great house on the top of the highest 
hill, above and beyond the noise of the humming 
looms. It is a luxurious country house, surrounded 
by green lawns and bright blooms. The sorrow 
came on the last day of June at half-past five one 
morning. 

Aurora Ryddle was lying insensible in a chamber 
of that house. Her friends were around weeping, 
fearing — listening for her last breath. 

Many of the factory people would have given their 
own lives for the life of the mill master's young bride, 
whom he had brought home scarcely a twelve-month 
before, whose beauty was their pride, and whose 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 32/ 

bounty had often flowed down the hill sides into their 
cottages. 

The clock in that chamber was stopped at half-past 
five in the morning, and no sound save smothered 
sobs was heard in the room. Even the spindles and 
looms stopped for a day, and the sorrow flowed down 
the hill sides and filled the cottages like a fog of the 
mill stream. 

But after all, there was no funeral from the great 
house of Glenn-Ryddle. A strange thing had oc- 
curred in that chamber. After some hours, the 
watchers saw a quivering and flushing in the calm 
white face on the pillow. The faint returning breath 
just fluttered the down of an ostrich plume, and 
Aurora Ryddle floated back to life on the pillowed 
couch which for a time was believed to be her 
death-bed. 

Days and months passed, and the summer colored 
into autumn tints, and autumn faded into winter, and 
spring and summer came and went, and the pale, 
beautiful face still looked up out of the pillows, won- 
dering at the stillness of the world. Even time 
seemed to circle in a pool like the mill stream, and 
the hands of the clock in the chamber forever stood 
at half-past five. 

Aurora Ryddle clung to a very slender thread of 
life, and consciousness came slowly, slowly. At 
length bodily health and strength in a measure re- 
turned, but the senses seemed to be curtained within 
her wide-open, soft eyes. They looked inward al- 
ways until they were startled by some sudden out- 
ward presence. 



328 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Lamotte Ryddle, the mill master, was a kind man, 
much older than his wife, and much engrossed in 
business. He was the father and temporal provi- 
dence of the village of Glenn-Ryddle, and he loved 
Aurora's quiet, simple beauty, chiefly as an ornament 
of the house. If it was not heart-fervor it was the 
warmest worship he was capable of offering at the 
shrine of beauty. 

Aurora knew the true value of her husband's kind 
heart and his sentiment for her, and while she was 
not unhappy during the first year of her married 
life, she could not help dreaming of another being 
that might come into her arms and home to fill a 
certain vague void in her longing heart. 

On that memorable June morning her conscious- 
ness was shattered. When she first caught hold 
of some scraps of memory and turned them to view^ 
her mind was as a warped and broken mirror and 
made distortions. Then came sudden frenzies of 
laughing, weeping moaning and disjointed talk. 
She could not bear the presence of her husband, 
and hid her face at his approach. His coming foot- 
steps seemed to give her so many electric shocks, 
which at his retreat became less and less violent 
until the creak of his boots died away on the gravel 
walk. For her benefit and possible restoration he 
banished himself from her presence and walked with 
muffled steps about his home. She was nervous 
and excited in the presence of any one who had 
been familiar to her in that house — servants and 
all — and a competent care-taker was needed. One 
was found in an elder maiden sister — Ruth Dart — 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 329 



who had years before given up hving her own Hfe 
and resolved to hve for others. Ruth and Aurora 
were not only sisters, but had always been dear 
friends, and upon separating they kept up a regular 
weekly correspondence until it was broken up, with 
other famifly regularities, that day. Ruth came, and 
she was the first object Aurora saw clearly in the 
old hght. Sisterly love and the memories of Hfe in 
the old homestead began the cure. When the sis- 
ters were together the stricken one was strong in the 
support, and thus Aurora's reason began a second 
dawn. 

There was hope now, but the most difficult matter 
of all was yet to manage. 

During Aurora's first days of returning strength, 
and apparently rational consciousness, visitors had 
come into her chamber, and on one or two occasions 
brought with them young children. It was found 
that the sight of a child caused her a fit of frenzy, and 
a child's cry threw her into convulsions. Children 
were thenceforth forbidden to enter the invalid's 
room. This peculiarity of the malady made Ruth 
great uneasiness and set her invention to work. 
There was a good cause for anxiety, and motive and 
scope for invention. Ruth thought if she could only 
cure Aurora's repugnance to children the restoration 
would be complete, and she set herself about the 
task. It was a case that could not be hastily treated. 
It might take years, and it did. There was great 
pain in it, too, for the sister nurse, but she was 
patient. Besides the care of her sister, she found a 
child which she resolved to train for a future pur- 



330 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

pose, and the latter, under the peculiar circum- 
stances, could not live in the house. Aurora had 
several times heard, or fancied she heard, the laugh- 
ing or crying, or the pattering feet of a child at play- 
in the house, and the sounds or fancies always made 
her worse. The presence of childhood was there- 
fore strictly interdicted in the house of Glenn- 
Ryddle. And without the ability to endure, and 
even love that which had been a secret and holy 
longing, the restoration of Aurora Ryddle could 
never be complete. What was to be done ? This 
was the. problem Ruth had to solve in the perform- 
ance of her sisterly mission. 

Beyond the lawn of the Ryddle mansion a child 
was already in rearing by a couple of factory people 
in a little cottage on the hill-side. There were 
several other children in the family, but one little 
girl was put in innocent training for the special 
purpose. At the proper time she was expected to 
play a child's part in a domestic drama without 
knowing why or wherefore. Ruth often visited 
this family, and furnished them with comforts not 
within the reach of their means. She had long 
talks and rambles with the little one, probably 
rehearsing the important part she expected the child 
to play. 

And thus five years passed, in and around the 
master's mansion. They expired on the last day 
of June at half-past five in the morning. 

In the meantime Aurora Ryddle had recovered 
so far as to take an interest in things outside of her 
chamber. A strange coincidence of her days in 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 33 1 

these years was, that, although the clock in her 
room still silently pointed its immovable hands, she 
always awoke at half-past five in the morning, and 
first opened her eyes wide on the dumb face of the 
clock. She had a mysterious sympathy with time 
as it went, and that particular point of time as it 
stood. She would never listen to her sister's oft- 
repeated suggestions to start the clock for company's 
sake. She seemed to want it still, that she might 
take hold of each day's life precisely at that point. 
It was a morbid fancy, perhaps, but it meant awak- 
ened interest in her life, such as it was. 

So the clock in the bed-chamber had always stood 
still and had the advantage of all other time-keepers 
in being precisely right twice every twenty-four hours. 
But to her it was always half-past five in the morn- 
ing. She took no note of evening time. When it 
was right, in the morning, Aurora always rose and 
looked out on the lawn from her window. It faced 
the east, and, in the summer time, the sunbeams shot 
into the room through the mists that overhung the 
glen. When the sun was out she looked and looked, 
till the fog was gone, and she saw the clear sky. So 
she began day after day, in a calendar of time that 
never moved for her. 

On the particular day just noted, a movement be- 
gan. She saw just within the closed iron gate of 
the lawn a little fairy-like child, skipping around on 
the sparkling, dewy grass, pulling sprigs of ever- 
greens and plucking flowers in apparent glee. It 
was evidently a girl. She was alone. Something 
in the figure of the child transfixed her gaze. It was 



THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 



bright and beautiful as the June morning's face 
reflected in all the colors of garden and lawn. 

The impulse to talk to the child was too strong to 
be resisted. Aurora opened the window and called 
and beckoned. The little spirit of the morning saw 
her and ran nimbly towards the house. As she came 
the day brightened and the clear sky about the sun 
came out through the mists. She came under the 
open window with the bunch of green and roses in 
her hand all wet with dew, and her face and hair 
and dress bespangled with clinging rose-leaves and 
flower-dust. 

Aurora cried for joy at the pretty sight and ex- 
claimed : — 

" Darling, who are you ? " 

" I'm little Lyda." 

" Whose Lyda ? Lyda what ? " 

"Just Lyda's all the name I've got." 

"But how did you get here, little dear? " 

"A lady brought me and put me in the gate." 

" Who was the lady, Lyda ? " 

" She told me never, never to tell, and Lyda said 
she wouldn't — so she mustn't." 

The mystery of the child's appearance in the 
grounds awakened an intense and healthy interest in 
Aurora's mind. She questioned the little elf of 
Flora further: — 

" What did the lady say when she put you in the 
gate ? " 

" She said a dood lady lived here, who wanted a 
little dirl like me." 

" Have you no papa or mamma who wants you ? " 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 333 

" Papa and mamma are poor, and they have plenty- 
more." 

" So they gave their little Lyda to the lady, did 
they?" 

*• Yes ; they sent Lyda away." 

" Lyda, would you like to live with me ? " 

"If you are the dood lady." 

" Come up to me, darling; the door is open." 

And Lyda bounded on the porch and upstairs and 
into the chamber, and brought the freshness of the 
morning with her and a new life into that room. 

All the while of the talk Ruth Dart was standing 
within the door listening and rejoicing over the suc- 
cess of her plot, and when Lyda was invited in, Ruth 
showed herself in the door, which reassured the child 
and hastened her entrance. Ruth and Lyda ex- 
changed no words. The child hurried upstairs and 
Ruth's eyes filled as she went. 

An important part of the training had been that 
Ruth was not to be known in the matter, and the 
child was likely to honor it. So far all had gone 
well. 

Lyda was a pretty, graceful child, and her earnest, 
plaintive face and great pleading eyes commanded 
love at sight. Wet with the dew and morning mists 
as she was Aurora caught and folded her in her 
arms, saying : — 

" Little Lyda shall live with me till somebody 
comes to take her away." 

" But you won't let 'em, will y on ? I want to live 
with you 'cause your're dood and have no odder 
little dirl. I'll be very dood." 



334 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES, 

The child struck the right chord in that longing 
heart. A healthy impulse bounded in Aurora's veins 
and brought fresh color to her face. The child saw 
her conquest and put her lips up to be kissed. The 
offer was not refused, and so the sweet compact be- 
tween the newly awakened woman and the trusting 
little stranger child was sealed. 

Lyda brought nothing with her but what she held 
in her hand, and the clothes she had on. She was 
all there, and for the time at least, all Aurora's. 
Aurora took the flowers and sprigs of evergreen, and 
put them in place in the room, and then said : — 

" Lyda, how old are you ? " 

" Five years old to-day, they used to say — at half- 
past five in the morning." 

Aurora started ; looked at the clock, then into 
the child's face, then went to her dressing-case and 
looked at something there. She lifted the child up 
and both looked into the mirror. She shook her 
head. Something she was looking for, and once or 
twice thought she had seen, had fled. If Lyda 
only looked enough like her to pass for her child it 
would make the bond so much the dearer between 
them, she thought ; but she was so like, and yet 
so different; her face was a puzzle as well as her 
coming. 

" See, what I have here," she said to Ruth, as she 
entered as usual to assist her sister in making her 
simple morning toilet. "A little Lyda, just five 
years old to-day." Ruth looked sufficiently aston- 
ished. Explanations followed, while Ruth was busy 
most of the time with her back turned to the child. 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 335 

who passed through the ordeal of introduction well. 
She was not to seem to know Ruth, and another 
point in the game was made. Ruth was fond of 
children, and at once took a mighty liking for this 
child. 

" You will surely keep her," she said, with plead- 
ing interest. 

" I am to be your mamma, am I not, little Lyda ? " 

"And you will be my Aunty Ruth," chimed the 
child. 

Ruth took her up and kissed her a loving acqui- 
escence, and Lyda was install'ed a member of that 
family. 

And life became beautiful again in the house of 
the master of Glenn-Ryddle. Lyda unlocked the 
closed doors, opened the windows and let in the 
light and air. She soon caught sight of Lamotte 
Ryddle ; had she seen him before ? Perhaps. At 
any rate, she ran to meet him in the walk, took his 
hand, and said: — 

" Come and see my mamma." 

He went unresistingly to the chamber from which 
he had been banished five years before. He had 
been morbid too, and almost a stranger in his own 
house. Lyda led him in, and said : — 

" See, mamma, Lyda has brought papa home." 

And all the colors of the dawn lived in Aurora's 
happy face. And he, holding her in his arms again, 
drank fresh draughts of her beauty. What magic 
has the child wrought? Close the door on this 
sacred scene. 

Little Lyda completely changed all the life and 



336 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

feeling and sentiment of the house. She was a new 
spark of heaven's fire that had dropped down there 
hke an aerohte, and made an illumination of calm, 
sweet effulgence. It streamed down the hill-sides, 
brightened the cottage windows and shone on the mills 
in the glen. Even the spindles and looms had a hap- 
pier hum, and the joy of the good old time came 
back in its full tide to the factory village of Glenn- 
Ryddle. Visitors returned to the master's mansion, 
and all moved again in the old way except the clock 
in the chamber, which still pointed to half-past five, 

Lyda became a most interesting study to Aurora 
and the rest, and Ruth had a deeper interest than 
any in her behavior, but of another kind. She had 
many private talks with Lyda, which had a secret 
meaning, and promised further developments. 

Except on these stolen occasions, Aurora and 
Lyda were inseparable companions. They rambled 
together in the walks and gardens and groves, and 
beyond the iron gate by which Lyda had so 
mysteriously entered — such a little thing, and yet 
bringing so much of life. 

Aurora was anxious and troubled about two or 
three things. She wanted to ask Ruth a question 
or two which she knew Ruth could answer and set 
her at ease, if she would, and yet she feared to ask 
them. No one volunteered to tell her anything of 
the past, part of which was a blank to her, except 
Lyda, and she could not help chattering about her 
" odder home." She studiously refrained from ask- 
ing Lyda any more questions about her former life, 
out of respect to the child's promise not to tell the 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 337 

thing she wanted most to know. Probably she 
wanted the child to forget. 

One day Lyda was particularly chatty. She told 
Aurora a little domestic incident about her father 
and mother, her brothers and sisters and herself. It 
turned on some matter of family discipline, which 
showed that the children had been reared by rule. 
When she had finished she waited for a response. 
Aurora said nothing, and turning away began talking 
to the child upon some other subject. Lyda stole 
into a corner, and when Aurora soon after called 
her, her eyes were trickling tears. 

That night after she retired early to bed Aurora 
heard her talking, and listened at the door of her 
little room. Lyda had, in fancy, summoned her 
brothers and sisters about her, and was bidding 
them a formal and final farewell. Her good-byes 
to Clarence and Julie, and May and Florence and 
little Harry, with bits of advice and crumbs of con- 
solation for her going away, were touching to tears. 
And she was crying too, when she said, for their 
comfort: — 

" I'll never see you any more, but you will know 
I love my odder mamma, and my odder home; 
be dood." 

Then she repeated all their names in her little 
prayer, and sobbed herself to sleep. 

The next day Lyda crept timidly up to Aurora 
and taking her hand said : — 

" Mamma, I want to tell you anodder story." 

Aurora started, turned her face slightly, and 
moved her hand as if she did not want to hear it. 



338 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

Lyda persisted, and smiling through starting tear 
drops continued : — 

" But it isn't about my odder home." 

Aurora was conquered again, and Hstened to the 
pratthng recital. And little Lyda never again named 
her brothers and sisters in Aurora's hearing, or spoke 
of any "odder home." 

There was a merry Christmas time in the great 
house of Glenn-Ryddle. The first family gathering 
there had been there for years made the festivi- 
ties. There were fathers and mothers, and brothers 
and sisters, and uncles and aunts, and cousins — 
old and middle-aged, and young and infantile. It 
was a good company and a rare occasion — an old- 
fashioned country family reunion. The members 
of the family came from far and near, and the 
scattered of three generations were gathered together 
on Christmas-day. Little Lyda was introduced to a 
host of new relations — rather she introduced her- 
self, upon being asked her name : — 

"Lyda Ryddle." 

Several of her little cousins were present, and 
among them, the nearest her own age, was Aurora 
Dart, three years old, who insists upon calling her- 
self " Owlie " Dart. And Lyda and Owhe had grand 
larks, with the half a dozen other little ones. Lyda 
being the leader in the romping games. 

In fact, Lyda captured the whole company, old 
and young, and was the fairy, dispensing the sweet 
things and the pretty things of the Christmas 
tree. 

Aurora was warmly and unanimously congratu- 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 



339 



lated by all upon having drawn such a prize as 
Lyda from capricious fortune's wheel. All said, 
as with one voice, " Keep the child, she will honor 
you." 

Aurora was at first a little disconcerted at the con- 
cert— "Keep the child" — which she had already 
resolved to do, if permitted. She drew Lyda to her 
as she sat and said : — 

"I love Lyda as my own child. She has come 
into my heart to stay, if nobody comes to tear her 
away." 

Then little Lyda chirped in : — 
" Aunt Ruth said I was to live here always, when 
she put me in the gate." 

Had the little tongue slipped ? 
No. Ruth and Aurora were looking in each 
other's faces — both full of strange emotion. At 
length Ruth broke the silence : — 

" Yes, I planned it all for the best, for you, for 
Lyda. I know Lyda's history. She is yours if you 
will adopt her as a daughter. I promise you she will 
never be claimed by another mother. Will you take 
her as your own child ? " 

There was a pause of suspense. 
Aurora gazed in Lyda's face. She saw the old 
look that charmed her at first. She kissed the half- 
open wondering mouth and wide eyes, and said with 
emphasis and feeling : — 

"Since you all seem to desire it, I take Lyda as 
my own." 

Then spoke Ruth with a face and tone of in- 
spiration : — 



340 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

" Sister Aurora, there is no need in adopting her. 
Lyda Ryddle is your own child ! " 

There was a still small voice : " Mamma, I'll be 
dood." 

That was Aurora's Christmas gift, and it was a sur- 
prise to no one present save Aurora herself, who had 
just come out of the dark into a great light. 

Before they separated for the night — some to go 
home, and some from a distance, to remain in the 
house — all received a cordial invitation to make New 
Year's calls. Open house for the village and for all. 
Aunt Ruth had evidently given Lyda some further 
instructions, for the glad little thing pulled Aurora's 
dress, and said before all the company : — 

" Mamma, do you know on New Year's eve I'll be 
half-past five." 

" Yes, my darling, and we'll start the clock at 
half-past five in the morning." 

The spindles and looms in the mills of Glenn-Ryddle 
were stopped on New Year's day to celebrate the 
beginning of a new time in the master's mansion. 




POOR OLD HORSE. 



SCRAPS OF HIS SKIN AND BONES. 



j^^feNE day a friend of ours in a musical mood be- 
fltilrl ^^" ^^ hum a strange tune as if he had just 
Vw>| caught a sound of his boyhood which came 
'Vi^JV' suddenly upon him Hke a long lost brother. He 
kept on crooning and crooning, and presently some 
strange words tumbled into the tune, which seemed 
as if they had been there a long time ago. The 
words were: "Poor old horse ! Let him die." Now, 
the friend of whom we speak was not in a bodily 
condition to suggest that the words were peculiarly 
applicable to himself. Still, often and often from his 
lips came the sad refrain : " Poor old horse ! Let him 
die." At length he explained: "That is a song my 
grandfather used to sing before I left the old sod. 
What's the rest of it?" Then a thought seemed to 
flash upon him like a telegraphic message on the 
cable of memory, from that far time across the blue 
deep, and these words came marching with measured 
pace : — 

"But now I'm growing old, 

I can get no corn at all, 
I'm obliged to crop the short grass 

That grows all 'round the stall ! 
Poor old horse ! Let him die." 



342 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

This was an encouraging addition, but it was the 
most that would come. Days and weeks passed, but 
still no other word of that old song fell into line. 
The rest was completely effaced by the successive 
impressions that had been crowded upon the tablet 
of the brain during a busy life. The disconsolate 
singer had lost part of himself which he was anxious 
to recover, and never ceased harping upon " Poor 
Old Horse." He searched thorough all the libraries, 
rummaged all the book stores, pestered the publish- 
ing houses in Europe and America, and, at length, 
actually made a voyage across the Atlantic and 
visited England, Ireland and Scotland for the pur- 
pose of hunting up the " Poor Old Horse." 

He was haunted by a sound, a word, and the 
dim vision of a shadowy time, which had thrust 
itself between him and the present. It was a skele- 
ton which he wished to clothe with flesh and endow 
with life. 

At first his friends laughed at him, but the matter 
became too solemn for a joke and they began to de- 
vise means of helping him across the chasm and re- 
pairing the lapse of memory. But he, in, pursuit of 
the phantom horse, departed for other lands. 

During his absence there was a meeting for con- 
sultation. The first question to be decided was 
whether the thing sought ever existed, and if it had 
whether it was worth the search. No doubt the old 
horse and the song had been. If the song was a good 
song, why had it not been printed ? A great many 
good words had not been printed, because the speak- 
ers did not know their value. Trifles, too, become 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 343 

great things in centuries. Tlierefore this song, though 
trivial when it was sung, might be a subHme anthem 
now. The discussion resulted in adopting the most 
direct and simple method of reaching lost things in 
hidden places, which strange to say, none of those 
interested had thought of before, and some of the 
party were printers too. They made up a " pony 
purse" to give to some "influential and widely cir- 
culated journal," and soon after appeared an adver- 
tisement something like this : — 

"Wanted — The words of an old song, entitled 'Poor Old 
Horse ! Let Him Die. 

"Address, OLD HORSE." 

This brought the answer — in fact many answers. 
Answers innumerable came from town and country — 
far and near. All at once everybody had an answer, 
although no one seemed to know anything before. 
The answers had apparently been stowed away for 
years, just waiting for this grand opportunity to tell 
what they knew about horses. The amount of 
equine information that people have is astounding. 
The literary acquirements of the masses, too, are re- 
markable. They knew so much; printed books and 
journals knew so little about what was probably a 
brilliant gem of literature. " Poor old horse." Had 
the press in its mighty strides left this sterling Eng- 
lish song behind ? Had it indeed ever known of its 
existence? or had it rejected it as unworthy of its 
voice? These are questions which the results of this 
song-hunt must answer. Said results have their 
frivolous as well as substantial phase. Correspond- 



344 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

ents are earnest, flippant, grave or gay according to 
humor. One wants to know if this is a " hobby- 
horse." Others suggest "clothes horse," "saw 
horse," "rocking horse," "war horse," " wheel horse," 
" dray horse," "dead horse," and "git up old horse." 
One has the temerity to assert that "that old horse" 
went to the hoss-pital\ong ago, and has now gone to 
the dogs. All sorts of horses and hints of horses 
are brought into view like a circus procession, wherein 
these lively correspondents act as so many ring 
comedians. 

One reply states that the writer knew that same 
old horse, and never could look upon him without 
shedding tears. His full name was "horse radish." 
Quite affecting. Celebrated trotting and running 
horses come in for their share of notice, but it would 
take too much space to recount their names. All 
this is frivolous. But men will be boys, and must 
have their toys. Now, for the serious responses to 
a serious want. 

A very much-in-earnest correspondent refers to a 
beautiful poem by Longfellow, containing a touching 
story of an old horse that had borne his master many 
a long mile on his knightly expeditions, and who, 
when the horse had become aged and infirm, turned 
him out to shift for himself. There was no " society 
for the prevention of cruelty to dumb animals " in 
those days, but there was a town bell in a public 
square to be rung to call the authorities into council 
when any one had suffered a wrong. 

The bell had been long out of use, the place be- 
ing orderly, and the rope having rotted from expos- 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 345 

ure it was patched out with platted straw. One 
night the town was startled by the bell clanging 
" some one hath done a wrong — hath done a wrong." 
The old horse was nibbling around at the short grass 
and had accidently got a mouthful of the straw rope 
which he pulled and rang the bell. The council 
assembled at midnight; the old horse was brought 
into court — his story was told, and his master was 
obliged to take him home and cheer his declining 
years. This old horse's wrongs were righted and he 
was happy, 

But his master was a rich prince, who could well 
afford the luxury of an old horse. 

So far as we know his history, our old horse met 
with no such kind friends and good luck. He was a 
" Dobbin " or " Dapple," and a drudge in the lower 
circles of horsehood. He had never charged in 
the front of battle ; nor responded to the cheers of 
a crowd on the race course ; nor carried off a blue 
ribbon at a State fair — the proudest ambition of a 
highbred, noble stallion. 

He was the horse of poor yet respectable people 
who could ill afford to feed him after he had ceased 
to be useful. The skin and bones of an old horse 
are not worth keeping hanging round, and it unfor- 
tunately happens that his appetite for corn and oats 
and clover increases with age. His legs and eyes 
may utterly fail, but his teeth are the last to wear out. 

What is the poor owner of such a poor horse tr> 
do? The song has it — " let him die." It is a hard 
case all round. Strict justice to the beast would 
often be gross injustice to the man. If the animal 



346 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

has anything to complain of, it is his own organiza- 
tion and persistent constitution, which enable him to 
eat long after he is unable to work for his board. He 
becomes, as it were, his own stocks, in which he 
sticks as a mark for everybody's abuse. Nature ap- 
pears to have gifted him with mistaken economy, 
which has entailed great misery on the whole horse 
race, and distracted man with melancholy songs. 
There is no help for it. " Poor old horse ! Let him 
die." 

From another correspondent the following is re- 
ceived : — 

" Old Horse : The words of the song you wish 
can be found in Dana's ' Two Years before the 
Mast' " That book was consulted. It was printed 
thirty-two years ago. It is all about sailors and the 
salt seas, and gives an account of a voyage to Cali- 
fornia at that remote period before the railroad folded 
together the East and West like two pages of the 
book. It dishes up " old horse " in French style. 
Sailors are in the habit of making rough jokes even 
about the dainties of their table. Seamen have a 
tradition that a beef dealer was once convicted in 
Boston of having sold "old horse" for ships* stoies 
instead of beef, and had been sentenced until he 
should eat a whole horse, and that he is now lying in 
Boston jail eating horse meat. Dana gives the fol- 
lowing rhymes as chanted by sailors over their efforts 
to stow away tough beef: — 

" Old horse! old horse, what brought you here ? 
From Sacarap to Portland pier 
I've carted stone this many a year ; 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 347 

Till, killed by blows and sore abuse, 
They salted me down for sailors' use. 
The sailors they do me despise, 
They turn me over, and damn my eyes. 
Cut off my meat, and scrape my bones, 
And pitch me over to Davy Jones." 

This is an honest effort at animal painting, but it 
is very far from a picture of our old horse. It does 
not begin to describe the depth of his woes. We 
shall have to look further, even if we fare worse. 

Here is another letter on the subject, which prom- 
ises some genuine satisfaction: "If 'Old Horse' is 
serious about wanting the words of the old song enti- 
tled ' Poor Old Horse,' the writer can supply them, 
in part at least, just as he learned them from his 
father thirty years ago in the * mother country.' 
He has never seen them either in print or manu- 
script, and a part of the old song has slipped from 
memory. So much as he knows he herewith 
encloses, hoping some ona else will step in and make 
up the deficiency. The writer is curious to know 
the motives which prompted the advertisement and 
the name of the parties thereto — to satisfy which 
he sends his full name and address." 

"POOR OLD HORSE. 

"Come all you gentlemen. 

With courage stout and bold. 
Who have got a good old horse. 

Take care of him when he's old. 
Mind, be sure, you use him well, 

Mark well what I now say. 
And all in their due season, 
Give him good corn and hay. 
Poor old horse. 



"Once, when young, I was fed 
On the best of corn and hay, 
That ever in the fields grew. 

Or in the meadows green and gay. 
But now I am growing old, 
I can get no corn at all ; 
I'm obliged to crop the short grass, 
That grows 'round the wall. 
Poor old horse ! 

' Once, too, I was clothed 

In best linsey-woolsey fine ; 
And I was well fed up, 

And my body it did shine. 
But now in the open fields 

I'm for-ced for to go, 
To bear cold winter's storms. 
Hail, rain, frost, and snow. 

Poor old horse! 

" My skin unto the huntsman 
So freely I would give ; 
My body to the hounds, 

I'd rather die than live. 
And lay down my precious limbs 

That have run so many miles, 
O'er hedges, ditches, mountains high, 
As well as gates and stiles. 

Poor old horse ! 



'But now I'm growing old. 
My nature feels decay ; 
And as I in my stable stood, 
I heard my master say — 
Poor old horse ! 
****** 

' We'll whip him, stick him, turn him out. 
To the dogs we'll let him go. 
Poor old horse ! " 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 349 



O! "lame and impotent conclusion." But 'tis just 
like a dying horse. How the words fail towards the 
last. Dust of oblivion ! Scarcely worth sweeping 
up ! 

Still another communication : — 

" If the gentleman who wants to know the words 

of * Poor Old Horse, Let him Die,' will call at 

he might get them." 

The gentleman called as directed, and the follow- 
ing is the treasure of another memory : — 

"POOR OLD HORSE. LET HIM DIE. 

"My clothing was once of woolsey, spun so fine ; 
My tail it grew long, and my body di8 shine. 
But now I'm growing old, I have no friends at all, 
I'm forced to clip the wild grass that grows beneath yon wall. 

Poor old horse, let him die. 
Whip him, strip him, turn him out, 
Poor old horse, let him die. 

•'Now I'm getting old, nature does decay; 

I've been master of yon field for many a long day. 
My master he was good, and to me was very kind. 
But now I have to hunt my food, and sometimes hard to find. 

Poor old horse, let him die. 
Whip him, strip him, turn him out, 
Poor old horse, let him die. 

" That old horse, blind and lazy, he's eating all my hay and straw. 
And he is noway fit my heavy team to draw ; 
He's poor and he's old, he's no use to me now. 
And he can not work any more in harrow, cart or plow. 

Poor old horse, let him die. 
Whip him, strip him, turn him out. 
Poor old horse, let him die. 



350 THE MASQUE OF THE MUSES. 

" Now, to conclude and finish up my hunting song, 
My skin I give the huntsman, my body to the houn', 
And for my poor old bones, they may bleach in the sun. 
Unless my master buries them for what they have done. 

Poor old horse, let him die. 
Whip him, strip him, turn him out, 
Poor old horse, let him die." 

How memories differ in regard to sound, and yet 
how tightly they grasp the sense that has impressed 
them. Here are the recollections of two, and the 
reader may take his choice. No language is safe 
till it is printed. It may not be considered worth 
printing at the time- it is uttered, but somebody will 
want to repeat it sometime. Rude songs and bal- 
lads contain the soul of the people who sing them. 
We would have been better and wiser to-day if more 
of this heart-music of our English fathers had been 
preserved. " Poor Old Horse " was evidently popu- 
lar, and sung in many farm-house and stable. Its 
moral is good, and cultivates humanity. The above 
imperfect outlines are all that is left of it. Was 
it worth the search ? Yes ! If it stirs a pleasant 
memory in a single old man, and touches a string in 
his heart that vibrates the tones of the boy. 

At best, things don't sound to us now like they 
did when we were boys. Do they? The voices 
that spoke them are hushed, and in these lay the 
charm of the notes and sentiments that were sweetest 
music to the ear and heart of childhood. 

In the young days of " Poor Old Horse " the 
printing press was not so busy as it is now, and 
the best memories can but imperfectly supply the 



SKETCHES FROM LIFE. 35 I 

blanks it left. Now the press gathers up everything 
of present and future value as it goes. If anything 
is lost, mislaid or stolen, the printing machine can 
find it — from a great fortune wanting heirs, down 
to scraps of the skin and bones of a poor old horse 
that lived long ago. 




